Star Wars: The Andrillian Prefix
by Xander Lexis Cross
Summary: A war is brewing between two planets, and millions of lives hang in the balance. The outcome of the conflict depends on a lone Imperial pilot and a young woman, both with an unusual gift they'd just as soon deny...and on three little info discs.


Star Wars:  
  
The Andrillian Prefix  
  
By Daryl J. Koerth  
  
1  
  
2 Prologue  
  
Sprat!  
  
Donovan braced himself as the craft shivered around him, the energy blast that had hit his TIE fighter dissipating against his viewport. He didn't have shields, so unfortunately the transparisteel on that portion of the cockpit spider webbed and almost lost integrity. Great, he thought. Just what I needed.  
  
Drawing on what he remembered of his rather extensive fighter training, Donovan threw the tiny starship into a perfectly executed reverse corkscrew, coming about on his attacker's flank. Who says X-wings are space superiority starfighters? He watched as the glowing engines grew closer, burning hot as the pilot of the X-wing pushed them to the limits. It was a rather generous feeling of superior strength, knowing you had your opponent by the throat, knowing that no matter what, you had him defeated, that had driven Donovan to take his first step into being a pilot. Sure, he loved flying--he wouldn't have been a pilot if he didn't--but the sheer sensation of adrenaline that he loved so much, that he felt now, was what had made him want to fight. He took a deep breath as he let his fingers dance over the control panel, routing more energy to his cannons, and smiled as he held his breath and fired. The firing buttons were easily coerced into their purpose and clicked rapidly as he pressed them again and again...and with a flash of flame and released gases, the X-wing exploded before him, a flower of pure destruction.  
  
It was that same blinding light which broke the illusion. The world swept into focus before him as the dark dome of the flight simulator rose into the air on its hydraulics. His helmet's view plate adjusted for the sudden rise in light levels, darkening so that it obstructed his sight. Each of his team members got up from their simulator chairs before Donovan finally stood up.  
  
"Once again, my friends, I win the game. Sorry, but I guess it's back to basic for you guys," he said as he unbuckled the restraints on his flight suit. He looked over them, the reflective black faceplates staring back at him. Giving a bright smile, he saluted them lazily with two fingers and turned to retrieve his emergency gear from behind his seat.  
  
"You really think you're the best, don't you Marks?," asked Carson, one of the other trainees.  
  
"You bet, Carson," he said as he added with an even wider smile, "I'm a lot better than you, obviously."  
  
The metallic click of heels on the flight deck always let you know that the commanding officer was on his way long before you saw him, and Donovan immediately dropped his gear and spun to face the C.O., just in time to bow his head in salute. The other trainees were already at attention at their sim stations, bodies rigid under the harsh scrutiny of the officer's glare. He just stood there, looking over the trainees, letting the tension hang in the air for a handful of heartbeats before his eyes finally came to rest on Donovan. His chin rose slightly as he appraised Donovan, and then he spoke. "You are trainee Donovan Marks, are you not?"  
  
Donovan responded to him with a curt nod and a sharp, "Aye, sir."  
  
The eyes of the officer burned into him for a moment longer before he said, "Good. Very good. You shall have the rest of the day to yourself. Gather your personal belongings, and prepare for dispatch. Then you are to report to the Duty Office in three hours for immediate assignment. Understand?"  
  
Donovan didn't believe what he was hearing. He was being assigned. "Aye, sir."  
  
The officer almost gave a smile, and said aloud so the others could surely hear, "Congratulations, Lieutenant Marks. You're fighting for the Empire now."  
  
Donovan smiled slightly, even though he took this very seriously. He was finally getting out of this place. He was going to get to fight against live pilots now, not just these simulated ones. This was going to be great. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
  
The officer turned slightly so he could see the rest of the trainees, and said loudly, "The rest of you are to report immediately to Commander Tsang for field drills. Double time! Move!" He clapped his hands to signify the end of the one-sided conversation, and the trainees scurried for the bay doors that led out into the drilling fields. With that, he nodded to Donovan one last time, and then he turned and walked briskly out of the simulation bay. Donovan just stood there for a moment, his heart leaping for joy. He had been chosen to fight for the Empire, just like he'd wanted all his life. This was going to be great. He turned and grabbed his emergency gear bag off the floor at his feet, then jogged off toward the barracks to gather his things.  
  
* * *  
  
"Going somewhere, hotshot?"  
  
Donovan didn't need to hear anymore to know exactly who it was he was speaking to. Spinning on his heels, he snapped to attention and tipped his head in a sharp salute. "Yes, sir," he said, and then gave a very brief pause before adding, "To fight for the Empire, sir."  
  
The officer smiled.  
  
"At ease, pilot. I'm not here to drill you about anything." Donovan let his stance slacken, but not much. Not in the presence of the man who had held his life in a tight fist for the past two years.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I came to congratulate you, Lieutenant. I heard about your promotion and your immediate assignment. Have you been to the Duty Office to receive that assignment yet?"  
  
"No, sir. I haven't yet finished gathering my things."  
  
"Well, please continue. I will hold you no longer. Once again, Lieutenant, congratulations."  
  
"Thank you, sir." Donovan watched as the man turned and walked away before he turned once again to face his bunk, and his solitary bag.  
  
"Oh, and pilot?," the officer said, making Donovan once again spin on his heels to face him.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
The officer saluted him informally with a grin and said, "Welcome to the Fleet."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
With that the officer turned, and was gone.  
  
Donovan took one last glance over the now empty bunk where he had slept for the past two years, and made sure he had packed everything. Nothing remained of his humbling old home, save for a terribly worn mattress and a set of neatly folded bed sheets that sat perched at the foot of the bunk. He looked to the bag that held his belongings. Everything he owned, in one single duffel bag. He sighed and picked it up from the bed, slung it over his right shoulder. It was time to leave. He took one last look into the dim barracks as he passed through the doorway, and thought in a fleeting moment about all of the experiences he'd encountered here, all of the things he'd learned. His emotion threatening to overcome his eyes, he turned and walked out of the doorway. As he walked the long, dark corridor to the outside training fields, he considered his position.  
  
This is what I've always wanted. I'm going to fight for the Empire now, and this is how it must be. There is no room for emotions like these in the life of a pilot. No fears, no regrets, no friends--not for long, anyway...and certainly no pity.  
  
He opened the door to the outside training fields, and bright, warm sunlight spilled onto his face, flashing briefly across his glasses before they had time to compensate for the sudden brightness. Walking across the open fields, he paused a moment to watch the hundreds of trainees going through their rigorous evening exercises, all lined up in neat rows. From behind him came another voice, this one just as familiar as the last.  
  
"Think you're special, huh?"  
  
Donovan turned around slowly, his dark glasses glinting in the bright sunset. Before him stood a young man of about twenty-four, with a fairly strong frame. He was dressed like Donovan for the most part, with his black flight pants and boots, and a tight fitted black shirt that outlined his muscular upper body. Donovan stared at him for a moment before saying anything.  
  
"Careful, pilot. You might just find yourself in charge of mess clean- up, you keep talking that way." He reached up with his free hand to display the Lieutenant's bar in his fingers, and the other pilot's jaw dropped.  
  
"No way. You've got to be joking."  
  
"That's right, Spider...I got promoted. Reassignment effective immediately."  
  
The other laughed heartily, and stepped forward with an extended hand, which Donovan promptly took in his own, shaking it. "Congratulations," he said. "Where you going?"  
  
"Don't know yet. I was on my way to the Duty Office to find out."  
  
"Well, when you find out where they're sending you, put in a good word for my transfer to the same place." He began trotting backwards, out toward the field where the rest of the trainees were exercising. "Maybe I can take your wing someday." Spreading his hands to emphasize a 'see you later,' Spider turned as he jogged back out to the drill field. Donovan watched him disappear into the crowd of trainees, all dressed alike, and then turned on his own heels and began the walk across the compound to the Duty Office.  
  
Chapter One  
  
  
  
The so-called duracrete streets of Nar Shadda were hot, crowded, and filthy. And to top it all off, they smelled horrible. A damp, musty breeze blew through the labyrinth of miles-high buildings that grew from the face of Nal Hutta's moon, and it moaned slightly as it strained against the resistance offered it by the thousands of narrow connecting walkways that linked the towering buildings.  
  
The city was a flurry of blinking lights of all different colors, sizes and intensities, and the only sounds were a mixture of crowds and overhead traffic, which all came together to form a dull roar against the background of the dank night air. It was enough to make one's skull ache.  
  
Tal Baasik turned from his high, secluded perch on the balcony of his temporary quarters. He'd had enough of the drab, bleak view. Enough of the city. Walking back inside, he took a cigarra from the left breast pocket of his black vest and put one end between his lips, then lit the other end. He inhaled the thick, bluish-white smoke deeply, savoring its tasteful aroma of stickle-mint and bloodrose, and his mind was momentarily filled with a pleasurable sensation—a suffusing, intoxicated flush that allowed him to relax.  
  
The chronometer chimed softly once, announcing that it was time. He stood and walked to the opposite side of the room, gathering his duffel bag and his blast rifle. He looked out the window in front of him and surveyed the empty walkway that stretched across the vast expanse of free-fall nothingness from one building to another, down the row from his own building. There were no early signs of his quarry. Not yet. He still had a few standard minutes before the transfer took place. Opening the window, he sat down beneath its sill and checked his blast rifle for readiness one last time.  
  
It was a beautiful piece of machinery, the blast rifle. He remembered briefly as he loaded it how he had spent so much time and effort putting it together; designing it, milling the parts from scrap, and crafting each individual piece to exacting standards of precision. It had taken him months to complete. And now it was time to put it to use once again.  
  
He looked down at the charge indicator on the side of the blast rifle and inhaled deeply from the cigarra, then blew out the smoke slowly, calming his nerves. The charge indicator hummed softly for a moment, and one red diamond blinked twice, then set itself into a soft, steady red glow.  
  
One charge.  
  
No room for mistakes.  
  
Shifting his position, he eased the long barrel of the blast rifle out of the window and took the stock up to his shoulder, snugged it up tightly, and looked through the scope down to the walkway below. Two men walked towards each other on the narrow catwalk, intent on each other for the time being. That was going to change, however, all too soon for the unsuspecting targets.  
  
Tal adjusted the scope to auto-focus and inspected the clothing of the man on the left. No markings that would identify him as anyone important. Not him. The man on the right stopped in the middle of the catwalk, looking at the other man somewhat nervously. His apparel was the same; plain, dark, and inconspicuous. He eventually extended his hand to the other, who walked up to him. In his grasp was a small, silver round disc of some kind, a memory chip perhaps. Where was the marker? Tal focused on the man on the right, searching. Something beside the disc glittered a different color from the man's hand, and he looked closer. A ring. A ring bearing the insignia he was looking for.  
  
* * *  
  
Allix walked toward the man in the center of the walkway, and stopped when he reached him. The man reached into his pocket and produced his a small silver info disc, which he then extended to Allix without a word. The man's face was tight, and he seemed very nervous. Allix reached up to take the disc from the man, but found that the man would not release his grasp on it.  
  
"Please," said the man, "be careful with this." His voice was almost shaky as he spoke, and he met Allix's eyes intensely. "It is very important."  
  
"Must be," replied Allix. "The kind of money they're paying me to take this thing off your hands...well, let's just say they don't throw that kind of money around at any old blob race. What is it?"  
  
"That's none of your concern," snapped the man. "Just see that it gets delivered safely to the contact on Andrillia." With that he released the disc, which Allix then placed securely in his right breast pocket. "You will find him in Ganastar, in the Industrial sector of the city. A location for the exchange will be supplied to you once you reach Andrillia. Be discreet. Nobody must see this disc but him, or I assure you the consequences will be most dire."  
  
A bead of sweat ran down the man's brow as he spoke, forcing him to blink. "If you reach Andrillia and make the exchange safely, the amount you've already been paid will triple." When Allix said nothing in reply to that, the man simply stared at him a moment, and then said, "You must be leaving soon, if you are to make the rendezvous on time. Go, now."  
  
The nervous man started to turn away, and Allix stopped him. "Hey. Who are you?"  
  
"Just a messenger, nobody important. Now go...."  
  
As he was finishing his sentence, there was a sudden flash of green light, followed by a brief spray of red mist from his chest. Blasters. Somebody was shooting at them.  
  
The man sprawled backwards and hit the rail of the walkway. Allix grabbed for him and saw the scorched, smoking hole in his chest. The man pulled Allix close and spoke brusquely. "Deliver the disc," he said, and then slumped backwards against the rail. Allix ran past the dead man, down the walkway and into the next building over. He had to get back to the hangar, to his ship, and leave this place quickly. Briefly he glanced back over his shoulder, wondering who the slain man was.  
  
His glance was just in time to see the man's body teeter backwards over the rail of the walkway and fall into the dark, dank oblivion below.  
  
* * *  
  
Tal walked along a crowded street later that night. He had already been back to his ship, where he had stashed the blast rifle and his other belongings, taking time to redress and change out his identification articles, just in case anyone was to ask about the little fiasco earlier in the evening.  
  
He checked the chronometer in his pocket and decided to go to the meeting he had agreed to more than a week ago, which was the original reason he had come to Nar Shadda. The assassination job he had picked up while he was here. All of that, and he wanted to pick up a couple of power coupling upgrades for his ship, the Naglfar, that went along with the new onboard weapons system he had installed recently.  
  
So much business, and so little time to do it all. Perhaps one day he would retire to a small, out-of-the-way planet and disappear from sight to grow old and fat—or not. For now, though, his meeting was waiting.  
  
When he had gone a little farther along the street, he ducked out of the crowds and into a small, shady cantina with a half-broken neon sign above the door. The Runner was supposed to be one of the better establishments of its kind for those who didn't want a whole lot of attention from unwelcome eyes and ears—which made it a complete and total hole in the wall of the building it occupied. At least nobody would be listening in to whatever it was this woman had to say to him, and whatever business she might bring with her.  
  
Walking to the bar, he took a look around the place. It was shabby, worn down, infested with the local low-life and foreign spacer-junkers that liked to hang out where nobody would notice them. In short, it was a typical Nar Shadda cantina.  
  
"What do you want," the barkeep asked in a harsh, gruff voice. He was a stocky man, very tall and of some alien race Tal had rarely seen before. Not that this was a new thing; he never paid much attention to anyone he wasn't doing business with. Even when it came to business he was strictly professional, and in this line of work you couldn't afford to know who your clients were. It made the job easier.  
  
"I'll have a flameout," said Tal, ignoring the imposing stance of the man across the bar.  
  
The barkeep poured and mixed the stout liquor, and finally passed it across the bar to him. "Five credits," he said roughly, staring at Tal as though he were some unwanted macropedia salesman.  
  
Tal pulled out a five-credit chit from his vest and dropped it on the bar, though the man was holding out an open hand. "With that kind of pricing," he said, "this place ought to look like a palace." The bartender simply snuffed and picked up the chit, then turned away. Tal took a sip of his flameout and wondered again what he was doing here.  
  
"You're late," came a female's voice from over his right shoulder. Ah, yes. That was the reason he had come to Nar Shadda.  
  
"Late by local time, or late by yours?," he said before turning around to face the woman he had come to meet.  
  
"By both," she said. The woman was gorgeous. There was really no other way to put it. She stood approximately a meter and a half tall, with long dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders and framed her face, sapphire blue eyes, and a softly chiseled face.  
  
She was definitely a rogue of some sort, too. She wore a tight- fitting crème-colored shirt with short sleeves beneath a black synthetic leather vest, black synthetic leather pants that also fit snugly, and upon her hips hung a gun belt with two BlasTech DL-44 modified blaster pistols on it, one slung on each side. Among other things, he noticed a black cylindrical casing about 45 centimeters long, which hung from a clip at her belt on her right side, almost behind her. It looked to be two separate pieces that were joined together at the center in equal lengths. He knew what that was, but there was no way he'd ever believe it.  
  
"Believe it," said the woman, who gave him a smirk of indignation. "It's a lightsaber." She gave him one of those 'are you done ogling yet?' looks, raised her eyebrows and nodded sideways to a table in the back corner of the room. "Can we sit down now?"  
  
Returning her irreverence, he gave her a sarcastic, lopsided grin and said, "Sure." Then, with a melodramatic sweeping gesture toward the table and a slight bow he added, "Lead the way."  
  
She led him to the farthest, deepest shadow of the entire tavern. The table where they finally sat down was completely devoid of light, save for a few soft, distant glows from the front of the bar. "So," he began as he took a seat at the small table, "what's with the lightsaber? You a Jedi?"  
  
She stared at him for a moment, measuring him. After a few moments her gaze broke, and she pulled out a small cigarra and lit it. "No," she replied. "I just carry it around in case I need it. Not that it's any of your concern." She looked at him again and set a miniature holoprojector in the center of the table. "This, however," she said, indicating the device on the table, "is very much your concern." She gave an almost sadistic grin, and puffed the cigarra.  
  
Tal picked up the small metal holoprojector and held it in the palm of his hand, then activated it. The air directly above the projector lens shimmered with blue and white static for a moment, and then flickered into an image. The image was that of a large, heavy-set muscular man and a much smaller female. The man in the holo was standing almost in front of the woman, blocking the view of who she was. She was bound, though, hand and foot to a pillar in the room, so that she was almost unable to move at all. The man, who was apparently of a very rare species, since Tal had never seen anything like him before, spoke in a gruff voice as the holo began.  
  
"This message is intended for Tal Baasik. You will not recognize me because you have no reason to, but my employer is very, very upset with you, and has been for a long time now. You once had a shipment to deliver, a very important shipment, and it mysteriously never reached its destination. It has caused my employer a great amount of grief. So, as collateral for settling the debt you owe, we have taken your sister, Corvyna."  
  
The large man stepped aside, and Tal could see the woman bound to the pillar. It was his sister, alright. Corvyna raised her head to stare through the holo into Tal's eyes. Bruises marked her cheeks, as did a small cut across her left eyebrow and a trail of blood from the right corner of her lips. Beaten and ragged, she said not a word in the grim silence of the holo. Instead she whimpered softly once, her eyes pleading for help, and then slumped loosely against the taut bindings, possibly unconscious.  
  
The man stepped back into view and started talking again. "We will accept no less than one million credits in exchange for your sister's life. You have one month before she is terminated." At that, the holoprojector image burst into thousands of tiny flecks of static in the air above the lens, and then was gone.  
  
Corvyna was a strong woman, always had been. She was a mercenary, the same as himself, and just as good at it. Tal could remember numerous times when she had stared straight into the face of danger, even death, and not flinched. The idea that these people had captured her was startling enough. The fact that they had actually beaten her into submission and scared her was completely beyond belief. It not only meant that she was in trouble and there was only one way out of it--money he didn't have--but it also meant that these people, whoever they were, were dangerous.  
  
And now they had his only sister, and it was because of him.  
  
The woman sitting across from him reached out and picked up the small device, placed it back inside her vest. Then a thought struck him.  
  
"Who are they? How do I know where I'm supposed to leave the money? They didn't give me any contact info."  
  
"I have the first piece of that puzzle," the woman said. "For a price." She smiled.  
  
"Name it," said Tal, genuine anger beginning to seep into his voice. Who was this woman, anyway? She leaned forward, cradling her drink on the table with both hands, and met his gaze evenly.  
  
"I want you to go to a meeting I'm putting together, one week from now."  
  
"What kind of meeting?"  
  
"The good kind," she said hushedly. "Don't ask questions you know I can't answer in a crowded room." She didn't miss a thing, this one.  
  
"Why a meeting? Usually people want money for information."  
  
"The meeting's just a first step. I need your help. Go to the meeting, and I'll provide you with the location of your sister and her captors then."  
  
"Fine," said Tal. "So where's the meeting being held?"  
  
She shot him a warning look and raised a finger to silence him, then took something out of her vest. Her eyes never leaving his, she slid the small object across the table to him. An information chip. "Read this when you return to your ship, and not before. It gives the location of the meeting site and has some 'navigational instructions' on getting to the site's position."  
  
"Great. Are we done?" He started to get up from the table, downing the rest of his flameout, and stopped himself before he walked away. "Who are you?," he asked.  
  
The beautiful woman smiled slightly, mocking his lopsided grin from when they'd first met. "Sabrina Starks," she said quietly. "Now get out of here, before somebody catches you for that little job you pulled earlier."  
  
Tal felt his jaw drop. "How do you know about that?," he asked fiercely. She simply let her grin widen and winked at him.  
  
"I have my ways. Let's just say I've taken a special interest in your work."  
  
"Good to know I have fans," he said, turning away from the table and heading for the door. He stopped before he got there and looked back at the table he had just left. She was already gone without a trace, as if she had never even been there. It was time for him to go as well, as security guards walked into the bar through the back door.  
  
Tal Baasik turned silently, and stepped out into the crowded streets to disappear.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
  
  
The Administrations Building of the Imperial training facility on Norvall II was a cold place. The walls were a blank gray, devoid of any color or decor, and even the floors on which his feet rested were laid in sleek black tile. Nothing about this place was warm or inviting at all -- especially the front desk attendant.  
  
Donovan Marks sat alone in the waiting room outside of the Duty Office, straight-backed in his black dress uniform, staring at the walls in front of him and wondering when it was going to be his turn. 'How did I get here,' he thought silently.  
  
He remembered back to when he was a young child, living with his family in the Delta Prime drifter colony over the dead planet of Celestine Prime, in a system near the Galactic Core. Celestine Prime had once been a lush, beautiful planet , so the Tales of the Elders said, which was long since destroyed by a devastating comet collision. Because of that catastrophe, a plethora of medium-sized asteroids hung around the planet like a great crown of rock and ice, left behind by the comet that had killed all remaining life on the surface to commemorate its death.  
  
The stories of the Elders said that the people of Celestine Prime had seen the comet coming along its treacherous path, and had built the four large drifter colonies that now surrounded the planet, to save as many and as much as they could.  
  
That was when the Empire had come. Well, not really the Empire; rather, it was the Old Republic under the rule of Palpatine, who was later declared Emperor. They had helped build the drifter colonies, along with a powerful shipyard, and had helped evacuate the colonists from the planet's surface to their new homes in orbit. They had left a garrison of forces at the shipyards to help protect the people of Celestine, and had shipped supplies to the colonies ever since, in exchange for the people's help in the shipyards.  
  
It was in those same shipyards that he had learned to fly. His parents worked in the shipyards, as did everyone else in the colonies, and he frequently went to work with them and spent the day cycles walking around the hangar bays, watching the ships come and go. The shipyards mined raw ore from the dead planet below, and Donovan often would go along with the pilots of the miner vessels when they made runs to the surface.  
  
He soon learned the controls and the mechanics of the ships, and longed to fly one of his own. He began to work at the shipyards when he was old enough, building the insides of the massive starships, and learned a great deal about them by spending his free time in the offices of the design teams, going over each ship's schematics and studying them, committing them to memory. He even maintained and repaired the small fighters that docked at the shipyards; and that was what had gotten him into the Academy.  
  
One day, as he was doing some repairs to a standard TIE fighter, the colonies were attacked. He finished the repairs quickly, making sure to reconnect the firing electronics in the cockpit. Soon the hangar he was in filled with TIE pilots, scrambling to their fighters. He fastened his crash webbing and flew out into the thick of the battle along with the rest of the squadron. Every ship in that space battle had been destroyed, with the exception of one -- his. At the age of sixteen he, Donovan Marks, had flown a half-crippled, unshielded, minimally armed, stolen TIE fighter against an attacking military force that out-manned and out-gunned him, that was better trained than him in every sense, and had completely defeated them. Even though every other ship in the battle had been destroyed, he had survived.  
  
When he returned to the station, he returned a legend. The officers at the shipyards had offered him anything he wanted, and he had requested a letter of recommendation and a transfer here, to the Imperial training facility on Norvall II, where he could learn to fight for the Empire and give back to those who had helped his people all these generations. Now he had gotten his chance.  
  
The door to the inner office opened and an officer stepped out, looked at Donovan. "Donovan Marks?," the officer asked.  
  
Donovan snapped to attention, bowing his head in salute. "Aye, sir," he said sharply.  
  
"Step into my office, please," the officer said, and then walked back through the doorway. Donovan followed him in, and closed the door gently behind him before taking a seat in front of the officer's desk.  
  
Ten minutes later Donovan emerged from the Duty Office carrying his duffel bag full of belongings and two packets of paperwork, one for himself and one for his new commanding officer, each of which contained his promotion, orders, and immediate reassignment. He left the Administrations Building and walked across the compound to the Officer's Lounge to await the coming evening.  
  
* * *  
  
Donovan stood on Landing Platform 7746D, awaiting the arrival of a Lambda class shuttle that would carry him off the planet to the star destroyer Imperious, which would then transport him to his first assignment in the Outer Rim. The only thing he knew about this place so far was what the report he had been given told him; that it was a shipyard somewhere in the Outer Rim in what they called "Black Sector." He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded interesting. Perhaps he could make a name for himself there, and gain another promotion, another transfer. Perhaps one day.  
  
For now, he gazed up at the star-sparkled sky and wondered when the transport would arrive. Something made a noise behind him, and he turned on his heels to look. The other pilots that had been in his training squadron stood behind him, climbing up onto the landing platform. He recognized them all, and called out to them in a hushed voice.  
  
"Spider?," he called to the young man in the lead. "What are you doing here? You know the XO will kill you if he finds you out of your quarters without permission!" Spider held a finger to his lips to silence Donovan, and walked slowly up to him.  
  
"It's alright, Donny...we don't mind. We all wanted to come say goodbye, and wish you luck." Spider smiled slightly, and looked over his shoulders at the young men who now stood just behind him.  
  
Donovan looked across their faces. He had known these men better than anyone for the past two years, and they had known him the same. Some of them had always been rivals of his during drills and simulations, and others had been his wingmen, his best friends. All of them, though, had the same look in their eyes as they stood on that hard duracrete platform and looked through the dark night at him. Respect.  
  
Donovan dropped his bag and extended his right hand to Spider, who took it quickly and stared into his eyes, then pulled him into a brief hug. "Be careful out there, my friend...and good luck," Spider said softly, and then released him and stood back. "We'll all miss you, and we all hope one day we can fly beside you." The others nodded almost in unison, adding their assent to that.  
  
Each of the eleven young trainees walked up to him individually and shook his hand, giving him their best wishes for the times to come. Donovan accepted each handshake or hug with a stiff upper lip, wishing them the best as well and promising that one day they would get their turn.  
  
Suddenly the thin air was split with a sharp, high-pitched whine, and the shuttle began to settle down to the landing pad. When it extended its ramp for him to come aboard, he turned back to the group of young men and raised his voice slightly above the gentle whine of the shuttle's idling repulsors.  
  
"I wish you all the best of luck. One day, you'll be standing here, and I hope that you each get the same great farewell that I have gotten tonight. Thank you, men...and goodbye." He straightened his back and clicked his heels together, then gave a strict military salute. The others all did the same, giving their best military salutes back to him. Then he saw the shadowy figure standing at the edge of the landing pad, with hands clasped behind its back.  
  
The commanding officer that had been his worst nightmare for the past two years, the one who had taught him everything about Imperial service stood watching Donovan's farewell. Donovan didn't have any idea as to how long he had been there, but he was sure the officer was ready to scramble the other trainees. Then, without a sound, the officer stood at attention and saluted him. Donovan gave him a salute in return, and then turned to walk up the ramp and into the shuttle.  
  
The trip from the surface of Norvall II up to the Imperious was a short one. There was very little conversation, since he was the only one on the shuttle other than the pilots. Donovan simply sat in the cushy acceleration seat he had settled into when he first boarded, watching the atmosphere drain away from the viewport and fade into the oblivion of space. Stars suddenly popped out of the dim contrast of the clouded viewport as they exited the upper atmosphere, and he felt the gravity lighten as the ship's artificial gravity systems kicked in as opposed to the strong pull of the planet.  
  
From beneath the shuttle, it seemed, the Imperious rose into view as it came around the planet in orbit, awaiting the shuttle's arrival. Donovan marveled at the ship, taking in its enormous size and fearsome shape.  
  
When the shuttle landed in the Imperious's hangar bay and he disembarked, he was met by three men in officer's uniforms. The one closest to him, who was standing in front of the other two, spoke up first.  
  
"Lieutenant Donovan Marks?," he asked with a tight military accent.  
  
"Aye, sir," Donovan stepped to attention and bowed his head in salute. He looked back up at the officer and met his gaze evenly, then added, "Reporting for duty, sir."  
  
The officer let silence hang in the air a moment as he studied Donovan from head to toe, and then spoke again. "At ease, Lieutenant."  
  
Donovan relaxed his stance, and the officer continued to talk. "I am Admiral Dolgren, and you are now aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer Imperious. Welcome, Lieutenant Marks."  
  
Donovan held the officer's gaze and responded in an only slightly more relaxed voice than his first one. "Thank you, sir."  
  
"Don't thank me, Lieutenant. Not yet, anyway. I am here to tell you that your trip to the Outer Rim has been delayed." Before Donovan could think of anything to say, the admiral continued. "We have been dispatched, effective immediately, to the Fornax system to assist in a brewing conflict. You'll be briefed when we arrive in the target system. For now, though, I would like to introduce you to two other men who will be important to you while you are here."  
  
The captain gestured to the man on his right hand side, who took a short step forward and gave a military salute as the captain introduced him. "This is your new commanding officer, Commander Tilman, and this," he gestured to the man on his left, " is your deck officer, Sergeant Warsen." Sgt. Warsen stepped forward in the same fashion that Commander Tilman had, gave the same sharp salute, and then stepped back. "We are currently preparing to depart, so I must make my way to the bridge to oversee the final steps." He raised a hand and another man came from elsewhere in the hangar bay behind the captain.  
  
"Sir," the man said as he snapped to attention. He was tall, thin, and ordinary looking. In fact, he looked a lot like most of the other people that were working in the hangar bay. He was a petty officer.  
  
"Petty officer Yohl, please escort Lieutenant Marks to his quarters. He will be staying on Deck 7, in Section 1B, room 7A." With that the captain turned and proceeded, along with the C.O. and the Deck Officer, out of the hangar bay and toward the bridge.  
  
The man gave a sharp salute and turned to Donovan. "Follow me, sir," he said, and then spun on his heels and began walking toward the turbolift. Donovan picked up his duffel bag and followed the man to his room. They took the turbolift up several levels, and emerged in a larger corridor than the ones they had traveled so far. It was much more plush, too. The floor was actually carpeted in a short-thread carpet the color of crimson. When he opened the door to his temporary quarters, though, he got his first real surprise.  
  
The quarters were not just a single small room as they had been back at the facility on Norvall II. He stepped into the room, dismissing the petty officer with a word of thanks, and looked around as the door closed automatically behind him. The walls were lined with all manner of Imperial regalia, decorations to complement the lush royal blues and ebony blacks of the room's decor. A few small holographic statues were displayed about the room where they were most appropriate, one of the emperor himself. In short, the room was gorgeous.  
  
He walked over to a small bar of sorts that was situated against the wall and looked for something to drink. Sure enough, there was a full complement of alcohols and liqueurs as his disposal. He poured himself a small glass of a liqueur distilled from the leaves of the blue stickle-mint plant, added a few small cubes of ice, and looked around his quarters again. At the back of the room, not far along the wall from where the miniature bar was, there was a small control panel. He walked over to it and pressed the top button…and looked on in stunned silence as the solid wall panel split in two and moved apart in pieces, disappearing into the walls beside it. He now stood looking out at the empty expanse of space and stars through a wall-sized viewport. For a moment he experienced a floating sensation akin to that of zero gravity travel, watching the stars drift past ever so slowly. That's when the voice startled him.  
  
"Donovan," said a deep, smooth voice from the corner of his room.  
  
Donovan spun on his heels to face the voice, and saw a man standing across the room in dark grey robes, his head shrouded by a long, drooping cowl. "Who are you?," he asked sharply. "What are you doing in my quarters?"  
  
The man in the robes paused for a moment in silence, not moving at all. Then, very slowly, he extended his arm in front of him and pulled the sleeve back to expose the underside of his left forearm. There was a tattoo there, etched into the skin in what looked to be dark red ink in the shape of some tribal symbol, perhaps. Donovan didn't recognize it, and he was about to ask what this was all about when the man spoke up again. "I am a servant," he said. "Of the One who rules this Empire."  
  
"Emperor Palpatine?" Donovan asked, loosening his stance. The man in the robes nodded and allowed his sleeve to cover his arm once again.  
  
"That is correct," he said. "I serve his will."  
  
"Alright," said Donovan. "But that still doesn't explain what you're doing in my quarters."  
  
"I was sent to meet you, Donovan. Our Emperor wanted to know more about his new warrior, and so he sent me." The man did not continue for a moment, so Donovan prodded further.  
  
"That doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would the Emperor send one of his personal servants to meet a TIE pilot? There are hundreds of thousands of pilots in the fleet. I'm sure he doesn't do this to everyone in his military."  
  
The servant nodded once again and spoke up. "Of course he does not meet everyone personally. However, you are very special."  
  
"Special how?" Donovan asked.  
  
"You are the best pilot to pass through our flight school in the past twenty years," said the servant. "You were in a space battle before you even went to the Academy, in which you completely defeated an entire squadron of raiders that were better trained and better equipped." He paused, and looked directly at Donovan for the first time. "None of this seems a bit out of the ordinary to you?"  
  
Donovan almost shivered when he met the man's gaze. He was much older than Donovan would have thought – or at least he looked it – with shock white hair, a few wrinkles around his eyes, and very contrasting green eyes.  
  
"No," said Donovan, not wanting to believe it. "I'm just a good pilot, that's all."  
  
"No, Donovan," said the man. "You are very special, though you may not want to realize it." The man smiled. "You are talented with the Force," the man said.  
  
Donovan stood stock still, his mind echoing the man's last words. Could it be true? His whole life he'd been brought up to believe that the Jedi were people akin to the Gods. Claiming to know one was about the same as saying you had touched a star – it was not possible to be a normal person and to know a Jedi at the same time. If you got too close to a star, you were incinerated. That's just the way reality worked. The Jedi were the children of the gods. They were gods. The other man broke his thoughts apart by touching his shoulder lightly.  
  
"Believe it," said the man. "You are much more than you have known."  
  
"But…how?"  
  
The man simply smiled. "My name is Halkin Kalis," he said. "And I will tell you all that you need to know. I'm here to teach you to become even more than you already are." After a brief pause he said,"That is why I'm in your quarters."  
  
Donovan remembered his drink and took a stiff swallow of it, then turned to stare out the viewport. He felt the deck beneath his feet hum slightly, and knew they were about to enter hyperspace. So he was about to become a Jedi. He walked up to the viewport, placed a hand flat against the cool transparisteel, and watched in complete awe as the stars became star lines, stretching all around his small body in the enormous viewport, and he plummeted down the endless tunnel of hyperspace.  
  
* * *  
  
Nar Shadda's main spaceport facility buzzed with activity. Everywhere beings of all races bustled about on their own business; selling information, perusing the various vendors that had set up shop in the walkways (which were all controlled by the Hutts, of course), and hurrying to meet their schedules. Nar Shadda was known for this kind of filthy place. It would be a pleasure to finally leave it.  
  
Sabrina Starks walked casually through the crowded spaceport's registration center, hoping to find the last little piece of the puzzle she had come here to build. She stopped at an information terminal off to the side of the walkway and began a search of the spaceport's router logs. Soon enough she found the entry she was looking for, and opted for further information on the ship's registration. The terminal displayed a file entry for a ship called the Listless Wanderer, registered to Allix Parm'iltar. The ship's stated destination upon departure from Nar Shadda was Laxxis VII, an out of the way moon that nobody really took note of, nor had any reason to. 'What a fool,' she thought silently, allowing herself a small grin of satisfaction. 'He may be a smuggler, but he's no good at hiding anything. He's going to Corellia.' She terminated her link to the spaceport's ship registry and returned to terminal to idle. At that she walked the rest of the way to her docking port in silence, satisfied at the thought that she had everything under control…as usual.  
  
Upon leaving orbit, Sabrina pushed for deep space. Soon enough, a larger ship came out of hyperspace directly in her path, and she slowed her acceleration to docking speed. It was her crew aboard that ship, awaiting further instructions from her. She opened a line-of-sight comm channel and hailed her main ship, the Silent Stalker.  
  
"Silent Stalker, this is Stalker I. Open the main hangar, I'm coming in."  
  
A smooth female voice came over the comm in return. "Acknowledged, Stalker I, hangar is open. Ready and waitin' for you, boss lady. Bring 'er on in." She smiled at the voice of Liza, her chief crew officer, and began the process of landing her small ship. She had a lot to do, if this was all going to work out right, and the chronometer was already counting down on the time she had to get it done. She would make it. Everything would work out just fine.  
  
Once her ship was secured on its launch palette in the Silent Stalker's hangar bay, Sabrina went up to the bridge.  
  
The doors opened to the bridge, and Sabrina stepped through to meet with the smiling faces of her loyal crew. Everyone turned their heads from their stations to look at her, already knowing what was next in line, only waiting for the word from their captain. It was Liza who broke the silence.  
  
"Did we make it?," Liza asked, her bright eyes accompanying the grin of anticipation on her lips. There was never any doubt what Liza had in mind; either she'd tell you right off, or you could hear everything she was thinking through the loud expressions on her face.  
  
"Everything went better than planned," she said, allowing a slight smile to cross her face as she perused the small group of the ship's bridge crew.  
  
Liza was the crew chief, her first officer in the organization. She was a short, trim woman with straight, chest-length brown hair that she usually kept in intricate warrior braids. Liza had come straight out of Coruscant, the once-capitol of the Old Republic. Now it was ruled by none other than Emperor Palpatine. Liza had been abandoned by her parents at a young age, and was pick pocketing when Sabrina found her. Lucky for Liza that Sabrina had been able to catch the girl's wrist as it slipped out of her pocket with a few credit chits; soon after that Sabrina had convinced the girl to join her organization. Over the last few years, Sabrina had taught Liza everything the girl knew: how to be a good smuggler, a good pirate, and a killer assassin. Liza was a good student, too. She picked up very quickly, and everything she learned was committed to memory for good. Nothing slipped past Liza.  
  
"So everything's set, then?," Liza asked. She was referring to the meeting, of course. She knew about the other two parts of the plan, but she was also smart enough not to mention it in front the rest of the crew who didn't know...and didn't need to.  
  
"Yes, Liza," said Sabrina, allowing her smile to spread a little across her lips. "Everything's set."  
  
She turned her head to the ship's helm station and addressed her helmsman, Valex. "Val, set a course for Corellia, and bring us out on the back side of its moon, out of sight."  
  
"Aye, Captain." Valex turned quickly to the helm's console and began working the controls. Within a matter of moments he chimed in again with, "Course set."  
  
"Good," Sabrina said. "Take us into hyperspace." Valex turned the Stalker to its new course heading, and the stars outside the bridge's viewport stretched into star lines as they entered hyperspace. She turned back to Liza. "Liza, please come to my quarters later at your convenience," she said, to which Liza responded by nodding. Turning, she walked off the Stalker's bridge and through the ship's small maze of corridors to her personal quarters, where she locked the doors.  
  
She walked to her desk and sat, weary from the past few days she'd spent on Nar Shadda.  
  
She pressed a button on the desk's control console, and a small holorecorder extruded up from the opposite side of the desk and turned on. She set herself in a respectable pose and started the recording.  
  
"Sabrina Starks, authorization Delta Romeo seven-seven-seven," she said in a firm voice. "This is Sabrina Starks, Captain of the Corellian starship Silent Stalker. This message is intended for CXO Braiden. In regards to the situation in Nex Siejerne, everything is clear. Timetable has been set to close at Husap Re'nefar sec-troi eren devi, CSRST: 1600.02. All plans are proceeding on schedule. Captain Sabrina Starks, 91914BSC. End Communiqué."  
  
Sabrina reached down and turned off the holorecorder, then stored the message in her personal transmissions log. She pushed the desk's button to connect to the bridge's comm station. "Trixie," she said.  
  
After a very brief pause yet another female voice came back over the desk's small inset comm speakers. "Yes, Captain Starks?"  
  
"Transmit the ship's message queue as soon as we drop out of hyperspace for our first course change. Encrypt them all with the code box I gave you last week."  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
She turned off the desk's console just as her door's chime sounded. From the desk she unlocked the door's mechanism. They opened automatically, and her first officer Liza stepped into the room. "You wished to see me, Captain?"  
  
"Yes," she said, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. "Please, seal the door behind you and sit. We need to discuss preparations for the weeks to come." From the personal file beneath her desk she produced a set of blueprints, schematics, and detailed timetables. Liza sealed the door behind her, as she was told, and then took a seat at the desk, ready to begin work on the rendezvous they were planning. There was much work to do, indeed. They began to talk, focusing on every detail of the elaborate set of plans before them until everything was perfect, and soon lost themselves in the grand scheme of it all.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
  
  
"Hey, Lucas!"  
  
Rills stood at his computer terminal, looking through a database of incoming information that scrolled up the screen as it filtered through the mainframe's encryption system. Something had caught his eye; a flagged message intended for Lucas, who was the leader of the pirates' organization. Lucas, a jack of all trades and master of many, had founded the organization when he somehow appeared in the core. Nobody really knew how he had gotten here, or where he had come from; in fact, nobody really knew anything about the man's personal history. They just knew he was extremely good at what he did, and that he was a man to be feared, if ever there was one. At least as far as they were concerned.  
  
The words echoed through the dim, hollowed-out corridor of rock, making the place seem like a tomb. It might as well be a tomb. Nothing ever happened here. The place even smelled like a tomb.  
  
Lucas, who had been walking to a of door at the other end of the corridor, turned and yelled back at him.  
  
"What?," Lucas called out in a husky voice, obviously frustrated. He had been on the outside of the compoud all day, running back and forth between two Imperial garrisons on the surface of the small moon, probably gathering intelligence about when the next supply shipments were coming and going. Right now, they were underneath about fifty feet of solid rock, buried inside the moon's outer crust. Pirates sometimes didn't know how to run from a fight, but they always knew how to hide. And in this case, they were very well hidden.  
  
"You just got a message," Rills shouted down the corridor, "and it's encoded with a priority flag. Must be something important." Rills was first officer to Lucas, but he still wasn't allowed to touch the boss's mail. Especially not mail that he couldn't get into without destroying.  
  
"You don't have to shout, Rills," came the deep, somber voice of Lucas from directly over his shoulder. "I'm right beside you." Rills gave a start at the sound of Lucas' voice in his ear, and turned to see that the man was indeed right next to him. That was one thing he hated about Lucas; he still hadn't figured out how he could move so silently, especially in places like this.  
  
He took a brief pause to look over Lucas, once again marvelling at the sheer presence of him. Raevin Lucas stood approximately 2 meters tall, and was extremely well-built to suit his large frame. He wore a breastplate of matte black durasteel, as well as armored shoulder pouldrons and an armored vanbrace on his right forearm. His black pants and boots, which were also mildly armored inside their quilts, stretched over his legs and showed off the high degree of musculature beneath them. His face was was a handsome one, cleanly shaven and softly chiseled, and his sapphire eyes stood out like beacons against the deep black of space. The slightly tanned complexion of his white skin was the only thing that kept their effect mediated. Also, his shoulder-length black hair framed his face and fell about his shoulders, swaying softly in the corridor's slight, chilled breeze. Rills feared him, of course, but he would never show it; he respected the man far too much.  
  
"You have a message for me?," Lucas said, raising an eyebrow. With Lucas it was never actually a question – it was an order.  
  
"Yeah," said Rills, and handed him a datapad that contained the heavily encrypted message he had been downloading.  
  
"Good. I'll be in my chambers, if anything else comes up. Otherwise, take the rest of the afternoon off." If this was the message he'd been waiting for, perhaps they could finally take a break for a while. He turned, and began walking down the corridor again. His words echoed back to Rills as he reached the door at the end. "Good work, Rills. Keep it up."  
  
Rills sighed as he turned back to his workstation. "Thanks," he said, and then added, "I will." He heard the echo of the door at the end of the corridor locking back into the closed position, and focused once again on the glowing blue characters on the screen in front of his eyes.  
  
* * *  
  
Later that evening, Rills sat with the rest of the pirate crew in the main lounge of the compound, eating his dinner and conversing about plans for their next raid. There were several options, as there always were: the garrisons on the surface, a supply convoy that was headed for a rebel stronghold in the Dantooine System, and among other things a Wookie computer factory on Kashyyk. That was probably the one they'd pull next, because the window of opportunity for that raid was fast approaching its ripe point.  
  
As they spoke, the door to the lounge opened, and Lucas came in. He was wearing a smile, which was somewhat odd, and he had a handful of datapads which he set down in the center of the large table before speaking. Rills noticed that the small crowd had fallen silent when Lucas walked in, but thought better of saying anything about it.  
  
"Men," said Lucas, "we have a job to do, and the time has come to do it." This was how he always began his speeches to the group when there was something important going on. He turned and walked away from the table toward the food processor, and began making something for himself.  
  
"I have decided on the next job, and I need each and every one of you to prepare for it, because this one's going to be especially difficult."  
  
"What is it?," asked Vercix, one of the newer members of the group. Lucas turned to look at him, and he, too, fell silent once again.  
  
After a pause, Lucas let his eyes drift around the room to briefly rest upon each member seated at the table. "The credit depository on Coruscant," he said, and the smile returned to his lip. It was not so much a smile, after all; it was more of a sadistic grin, as though he knew something everyone else didn't and was playing some sort of cruel joke he would get away with. Before he would explain, though, he gestured to the datapads in the center of the table. "Those are your orders. Find your name on the datapad that's designated for you, and read it all the way through. Read it carefully. Contained in those datapads are precise instructions for each of you. Don't question them, and don't stray from them, or we will fail in our mission. Also, don't share your orders with anyone else. For the sake of the mission and your lives, it's vital. That's all I can tell you right now."  
  
"Can?," asked Vercix in a sarcastic tone, "or will?"  
  
Lucas simply turned back to the food processor unit, his back to the table of pirates, and pressed a few more buttons. "That's not your concern, Vercix," Lucas said. "Just do as I say."  
  
Vercix started to say something, and as he did he began to stand. Before he could hardly part with the chair, though, Lucas spun around on him. Rills never saw where Lucas got the knife, and he barely saw it whistle through the air in front of his face. He did, however, hear a thump from the direction of Vercix. He heard the man grunt slightly, and saw him fall back in his chair, the black rubberized grip of an assassin's throwing knife protruding from the center of his throat. Vercix gave a series of throaty gasps as he struggled for air, and Lucas began to speak. This time his grin was replaced by a grim line upon his face. This time he was deadly serious.  
  
"Do not question my orders. I give them for a reason, and that reason is the success of our mission. Obey them, and live." Lucas gestured then to the gasping and bloody body of the dying Vercix. "Disobey them, and reap the consequences." With that he picked up Vercix's datapad, turned, and walked out of the room.  
  
Vercix gave one last struggling gasp for breath, blood gushing from the puncture wound in his neck, and then sighed and fell forward, dead. The others seated at the table, including Rills, stared at Vercix's bloodied corpse for a brief moment in stunned silence. Then, as though it were a race, they all leaped for the datapads on the table, searching for their names. Rills simply sat there, wondering what in the galaxy was going on. He finished his meal, then grabbed his datapad from the table and walked out of the lounge.  
  
* * *  
  
Raevin Lucas felt his muscles tighten once again, and his body contorted into yet another position. They held their tension for a long moment, almost painfully, burning with the stress of the workout. He relaxed for a moment, keeping his body's composure exactly as it was when it had relaxed, and waited for the next surge of electricity to pulse through his muscles. When it did, his position changed again, and then again. It was mildly painful, yes, as all rigorous workouts necessarily were; but he wasn't just keeping in shape, he was learning.  
  
He was wearing a black suit of very thin material which covered his entire body, from the ends of his toes to the ends of his fingers, and which covered each of those appendages individually. It was a body glove of sorts, which was lined with thousands of tiny electrode dots on the inside. He programmed a fighting style that he wanted to learn into the main computer system which controlled the suit, and it then selected a process for teaching that fighting style. To make his body move in the right way, the movements of the style were synchronized with the suit's control systems. The thousands of tiny electrode dots would pulse his muscles in the right places and sequences as the computer guided it, his muscles would contract accordingly, and his body would move to that position, guided by the machine. In turn, his muscles would remember the moves – thus the pause of tension between moves – and he would actually learn the fighting style. It was a beautiful system, and it had cost him a fortune to have it made.  
  
It wasn't a toy, though. At least he didn't see it that way. This was an investment; he was a mercenary, and he had purchased this teaching device in order to learn the tools of his trade. He took his work very seriously. As he moved at the suit's command, he thought about how he was going to make this work. It would be very tricky, and he must have every last detail worked out to perfection, or else the wookiees would capture and execute them all. That part, above all, must certainly be avoided.  
  
The plan was to infiltrate and raid the wookiees' computer plant, and then turn around and sell their secrets to either the Empire or the Rebellion, whomever paid the most for the information. At least, that was the plan as far as the rest of his organization was concerned. He, however, had greater things on his mind. If the raid was successful, he would have the means to become much more than he already was. He would have the last remaining piece to a puzzle he'd been trying to solve since his young days as a petty thief. He'd have everything he'd ever wanted, and more.  
  
The computer signalled the end of its style program, and his body relaxed a moment later. Carefully he stripped off the skin-tight suit and replaced it in its protective case, where it would be cleaned and recharged for the next session. Beautiful machine.  
  
He walked back out into the center of the floor and tensed all of his muscles, then relaxed entirely. Slowly, he raised his arms away from his sides and began going through the moves he had just learned.  
  
There was also a more immediate issue than the end result of all of his intricate plans. Sabrina Starks, and her little scheme to take over the galaxy. Good luck to her. He would go to her little meeting, of course, if for no other reason than to silently laugh at her insolent delusion. There was no way she'd ever succeed; and if she did, then at least he'd never outwardly said anything against her, and they could still be friends until he took over the galaxy. He'd just hold the girl for her – what was her name? Corvyna? – for now, and make her pay handsomely for the service later. If, that is, she was actually alive to pay. Once whoever she was manipulating found out that she was behind the girl's captivity, they'd probably kill her on the spot.  
  
When he finished nearly an hour later, he had effectively performed every last move of the fighting style, in sequence. His body had successfully learned every last bit of it. Perfect. He would have to use this in the days to come. He walked to his personal bath chambers to clean up. There was work to do.  
  
* * *  
  
"Concentrate," said Kalis. "This is not a game."  
  
Donovan stared at the statuette on top of his desk and stretched his arm out towards it. It was just a vase, black and silver and made of cheap plaster synstone. There was nothing special about it that he could observe. He had no idea why Kalis thought he'd be able to move it with his mind. Donovan flexed the muscles in his arm and hand.  
  
The vase didn't move at all. This was crazy.  
  
After a few moments more, Kalis sighed. "You're trying too hard," he said. "Using the Force is not a physical endeavor. Not for those who have as much potential as you. This is something you do with your essence, not your muscles."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Donovan almost yelled at him. "You tell me to concentrate real hard, so I do. You tell me to use my mind, so I do." He paused for a moment, staring at the stoic face of Kalis. "Nothing's happening," he said. "I think you've got the wrong guy."  
  
"Don't you feel it stirring within you?" asked Kalis. "Don't you feel just a little bit strange? Like there's something you know you should be able to do, but you can't. Not yet. And you won't be able to do it. Not yet. You know why?"  
  
"Why?" Donovan asked with a sigh, just to humor the man.  
  
"Because you won't let yourself," said Kalis in a matter-of-fact tone. His eyes bore into Donovan's for a long moment, as if the strange man were appraising him. Donovan held back a shiver under that gaze. Finally, Kalis spoke. "You're scared," he said.  
  
"I'm not scared!" Donovan yelled at him. "I just don't understand!"  
  
"You're scared!" Kalis yelled at him forcefully. "You don't want to believe that you can be a Jedi, because you're afraid of what it might mean for you, of how it might change you. You're scared, and you're acting like a child!"  
  
Donovan felt anger well up inside of him, building on top of all the frustration of the past few days, and this time he let it go. He hated being called a child, and he hated all of this pressure. He was just a pilot, not some god-like Jedi.  
  
"I'm not a child!" Donovan screamed at Kalis. He flung his right arm sideways, imagining himself grabbing that stupid statuette and throwing it. To his surprise the statuette lifted from its steady perch atop his desk and hurled through the air to smash against the solid wall of his chamber. Donovan stopped and looked at the broken shards of the cheap synstone statuette. He couldn't believe it.  
  
"No," Kalis said. "You are not. And perhaps now you will realize that."  
  
Donovan looked back to Kalis and lowered his right arm to his side.  
  
"I apologize," he said firmly. "But I do not like being insulted."  
  
"Like it or not," Kalis said, "you will soon inherit far worse than insult."  
  
Donovan braced himself for the lecture that would surely come. Instead, Kalis spoke up again.  
  
"Good," he said. "You have learned to use your anger as a tool to empower your metaphysical self. Now you must learn to control it."  
  
Donovan nodded to Kalis, who turned him by the shoulder and walked over toward the statuette. Somehow, Donovan realized, this was going to be another long night.  
  
* * *  
  
The cell was cold. It was dark. And it was definitely not the kind of place she'd consider a vacation spot.  
  
Corvyna shivered as the deep cold of the stone floor seeped through her bare skin, and opened her eyes. The room was very bare; not that it was big enough to accomodate anything more than her, anyway. The tiny size of the place alone was enough to designate that it was in fact not a room, but rather a cell. A place where prisoners were kept. She was a prisoner.  
  
She shivered again, and sat up. Resting her back against the rear wall of her cell, she began to consider her options. There really weren't a whole lot of options open to her at this point.  
  
Her kidnappers hadn't killed her, so that obviously wasn't the point of all of this. If they had wanted her dead, they would have simply killed her instead of going through all of the trouble to track her down, learn her schedule (which was made extremely difficult by the fact that she had no set daily routine), and then plan out exactly how to capture her alive. No, they didn't want to kill her. They wanted her alive for some reason.  
  
Perhaps her lifestyle had caught up to her. Perhaps this was a group of bounty hunters that had captured her for some rich family who was close to one of her targets. They shouldn't have even known who the assassin was, though, so that didn't make sense. She worked in total and complete private. Nobody knew who she was, not even her clients. They just knew she got the job done, and that they were supposed to pay to a neutral account. The money was then taken from the account by her and secured in her own personal stronghold, in a location that only she knew about. So it was highly unlikely that she was here on bounty. There was something more behind all this. Something she wasn't getting.  
  
Corvyne thought back over the events of the past week. Right before she was captured, she was casing a job on Corellia. Disguised as a tourist, she was walking around in the marketplace, following her target to see where he hung out. It was supposed to be a public execution, which would have been very tricky to pull off, especially in a place like the market. It was a very secretive deal, as it always was, so nobody should have known about it. Especially the target himself.  
  
Disguised as just another meandering tourist, she had trailed him all the way to the center of the outdoor market, hoping to get close enough to him to decipher what he looked like, so she could identify him later. He had disappeared in an alley not far from her, so she decided to take the back way around, and sneak up on him. When she arrived on the other side of the alley she was jumped, and before she could react she was stunned. The only thing she remembered about the man was that he was very handsome.  
  
She remembered waking up in a locked room on a ship, unable to think clearly, hardly able to stand on her own. She was then blindfolded and taken out of the room to a place where she could hear a loud humming, probably from the engines. There was some talking going on, but she was gagged, so she assumed it was not directed at her. She had, however, gotten a glimpse of holo equipment as the blindfold was taken from her eyes. She had stared into the holo for a moment, scared and confused, not entirely aware of her surroundings. Then everything went black again as she plunged into unconsciousness.  
  
Holo equipment. So they were making a video. But why make a video? Why not just take her to whoever offered the highest price and be done with it? Ah, she thought suddenly as realization came to her. So they're using me to manipulate someone.  
  
Just then the door to her cell creaked open. A rush of slightly warmer air came through the doorway and blew gently across her soft skin. Lights flooded the cell also, and she was forced to close her eyes momentarily to let them adjust to the sudden brightness. A very tall, dark figure stood in painful contrast to the blinding lights, making it difficult to identify who he was. When he spoke, though, she recognized the voice of the man who had been speaking when they made the ransom holo. Whoever he was, she wasn't going to let him hurt her anymore. She stood as quickly as possible and ran to the corner of the tiny cell, huddled down there. From the inside of her belt she pulled a miniature dagger that had been placed in the lining to conceal it. She waitied there for her first opportunity to strike.  
  
The tall dark shadow of a man approached her slowly, and stood towering over her in the bright glare of the lights. He spoke again, and now that the sedatives were out of her mind she could hear him very clearly in the cool, tinny-smelling air. "Stand up."  
  
She thought about not answering, but decided that cooperation was the only way he'd come closer, so she answered with, "Not on your life."  
  
The man leaned over her and opened his mouth to say something. Her window of opportunity had come, and she decided to jump through it full force. With all of her might, she shot her right hand (and the dagger with it) into an arc towards the man's left temple. Unfortunately, the dagger never found its mark. Her hand stopped short of the man's skull instantly, held in an iron grip that she feared would break the bones in her wrist. The shadow of a man twisted her hand slightly, and the tiny dagger was wrenched from her grip and fell uselessly to the stone floor of the cell. The last ring of the blade's steel on the floor echoed in her mind endlessly in that instant as she wondered what he would do to her now. Beat her? Stun her? Kill her, perhaps? A chill ran down her spine as she realized that for the moment, he was in complete control of the situation. He could do whatever he wanted to, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.  
  
The man let go of her hand. She froze in fear, thinking that maybe he'd simply pull his blaster and execute her for being so troublesome. Instead, he stood up again and spoke.  
  
"Perhaps that was a bit rough, for an introduction," he said, then turned and walked back to the door of the cell, where the light was still shining in. He waved his hand and the lights dimmed, so she could see his face. Corvyna stared in shocked awe at the face of the man she had been following on Corellia; a man she had heard a great deal about and had always considered to be a fairy tale legend because of the unbelieveable nature of the stories about him.  
  
"My name is Raevin Lucas," said the man in a deep, smooth voice. "And I would be honored if you would join me for dinner."  
  
Corvyna got one last look at the ceiling before the world went black again and she slumped to the cold stone floor of her cell as she fainted.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Four  
  
  
  
Allix was startled out of his concentration by the sound of the ship's proximity alarm. He jogged up to the cockpit and waited for the counter to reach zero, then dropped the ship out of hyperspace and into the Corellian system. He checked in with spaceport authority and got his landing coordinates, then set the ship to autopilot its way in and went back to his work at the ship's computer banks.  
  
He had been trying to crack this info disc for a good portion of the time since he had left Nar Shaada a week ago. He knew a few tricks about cracking encryption codes, but he'd never tried cracking anything this complex before. He wasn't a slicer, after all. But he did know a very good one on Corellia.  
  
Allix figured that if his employers would pay such exorbitant amounts of money to have him deliver the disc safely, the information it contained must surely be worth many times that. And that meant if he could crack it himself and learn what was on the disc, he could sell it to its intended recipient at a high profit. And if they didn't want to buy it at his price – which would be very high – there was always the highest bidder.  
  
Allix smiled and shut down the computer banks. He took the disc out of the computer and placed it in his left vest pocket, where it would be safe. Then, he went up to the cockpit's comm station and dialed the comm code for Berane Tarsden, the hacker who could hopefully help him out and crack this thing. One way or another, Allix would retire with the profits he made off this disc.  
  
* * *  
  
Corvyna awoke several hours later in a bed. Not on a cold stone floor, as she had expected to, or even worse. Instead, she was laying in a warm, soft -- and extremely comfortable -- bed. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on when they had captured her, so it wasn't all that comfortable; but it was quite a step up from that horrible cell they had thrown her in the first time around.  
  
She sat up and took a moment to look around. Not only were they intent on keeping her alive; now it seemed they were being paid to pamper her as well. Somebody had gone to a lot of lengths to make sure the room -- no, rooms -- were very well appointed. She got up off the bed and walked across the room to a door which apparently led into another chamber. When she opened it, she found a nice refresher room. The next door she went to was a fully stocked closet of clothing articles.  
  
Well, she thought, might as well look nice since they've given me the chance to.  
  
She took a few things from the closet and walked toward the 'fresher. A nice pair of black synthetic leather pants, form-fitting, a red shirt made of some kind of soft, smooth, stretchy material, and a fresh change of undergarments. Strange, she thought, that she actually found a few things in her size.  
  
Twenty minutes later, after a long hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, she felt much better.  
  
She went back over to the bed and laid down, wondering what the next step would be. She crossed her ankles and laced her fingers behind her head. Staring at the ceiling, she began to go through her options. Not that she had very many, not anymore; but there was always something to do to better your situation. She could search through the closet, perhaps, and maybe find enough material to make some sort of makeshift weapon. That might give her a little bit of an edge, if she needed it. The fact that she was laying on a chemically heated bed with real exotic down comforters and pillows made her doubt that she needed any edge at all, somehow.  
  
Why had they taken her out of the cell? That didn't make sense. She was a prisoner; they had made that painfully clear from the moment they'd taken her captive. She didn't know exactly why she had been taken captive in the first place, let alone why they were still holding her. Perhaps there was a bounty out for her, and they were just waiting to confirm that it was actually her they were after. That made a little more sense…but not enough to ease the odd feeling she had in the pit of her stomach.  
  
And then there was Raevin. Raevin Lucas, whom she had thought was just a legend. Raevin Lucas wasn't really a man; he was a fairy tale that spacers told their children at night to scare them into telling the truth. "Don't lie to me," they'd say, "because Raevin Lucas is watching you, and he knows everything you do." He wasn't a man, he was a myth -- until a week ago.  
  
Why had he suddenly surfaced? And, even if he had surfaced intentionally, who would have ever known who he was? Was that assassination order coming from someone who knew him personally? Somebody in his organization, perhaps?  
  
Then it all fit together. Corvyna sat up on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor in disbelief. They were holding her to manipulate somebody. Regardless of why, they had to have her in specific, or the manipulation wouldn't work. So, the assassination order had come from somebody Raevin knew personally. It had come from Raevin himself. He had set her up to bring her out in the open, where he could ambush her and take her captive. And she had fallen for it.  
  
She had to figure out who they were manipulating. And the only way to do that would be to cooperate with Raevin in whatever this scheme was. She had no weapons that she could use to get herself out of this mess, so now she had to use her mind. Knowledge would be her weapon.  
  
The door to her room suddenly whisked open. Corvyna jumped to her feet and turned to look at the person who stood in the archway. The man was slightly taller than she was, and rather bulky. He looked like a typical spacer; rough, burly, and devoid of common etiquette.  
  
The man smiled and nodded to her. "My name is Rills," he said. "Raevin sent me to invite you to dinner with him this evening."  
  
Corvyna just stared at him, refusing to speak.  
  
"I see you found the closet and the 'fresher," he said, looking her over in the typical lingering glance of a very lonely spacer. "You look very…nice."  
  
She decided to cut him off at that. "I'm glad you think so." She walked to the closet and pulled a long black overcoat off of its hanger, then put it across her shoulders so it would hang there without her arms in the sleeves. "Are you going to show me to Raevin, or not?" At this, she gave him a pointed stare, raising her left eyebrow.  
  
The man smiled gruesomely, his less-than-desirable teeth making a beacon of his plump face. "It would be my pleasure," he said.  
  
* * *  
  
Raevin sat in his private chambers, awaiting his dinner appointment for the night. Corvyna was no doubt quite surprised at the sudden change in her treatment. She would be quite amiable to what he had to say, and she would accept every word of it with very few questions. He hoped.  
  
The door chimed and Raevin got up and walked to the comm panel on the wall. "Raevin," he said, and was answered by Rills.  
  
"Rills here. I've brought the woman, as you asked."  
  
"Thank you, Rills. I'll be right there to show her in. You may go."  
  
Raevin hit the button to close the communication and walked out into his receiving room, which adjoined the dining room. He pressed the button to unlock the door, and with a whisk it split down the middle and slid open. Corvyna stood there, dressed neatly in the clothes he had provided for her. She looked, well, beautiful.  
  
"Good evening, Corvyna," he said in a deep, smooth voice. "I'm honored you could join me." She stared at him a moment before answering.  
  
"Don't feel so honored. I'm here to talk."  
  
"Well, then we shall talk. We'll do so over dinner. Please, come in." Once she stepped through the doorway he sealed the door and locked it.  
  
"The dining room is this way. Follow me." He led her into the dining room. When she saw the table, elaborately set with a white cloth and a bountiful arrangement of meats, cheeses and fruits, she froze. Good, he thought. Think it over. What do I want? The sooner you become enchanted with my hospitality, the sooner we can get down to business.  
  
She took her overcoat off of her shoulders and draped it over the back of her chair, then sat across from him. The door to the dining room closed at his command, and they began to eat…and to talk.  
  
* * *  
  
The Death's Head came out of hyperspace in the Fornax system with a blaze of Imperial gradeur. The huge ship made the transition from hyperspace to normal space as though it had been manufactured no more than a month ago. In point of fact, the ship itself was only six months out of the yards.  
  
Admiral Dolgren stood in his chambers, looking out one of the viewports at the void of space. As he watched, the planet Fornax came into view on the right. The planet was surrounded by rings which appeared to be made of fire during certain seasonal conditions created by the collision of the sun's rays with a cloud of dust, ice and debris around the rings themselves, which were made of small meteorites and chunks of ice. The Fire Rings of Fornax were a major tourist attraction in this area of the galaxy. Too bad, he thought, that they were here to institute a military blockade.  
  
A call came through on the intercom.  
  
"Admiral," said the tinny voice of the navigations officer, "We have arrived in the Fornax system. Do you have any special instructions?" Dolgren liked the way his navigations officer phrased that question. Even his tone of voice was respectful, almost enthusiastic about taking an order.  
  
"Give me tactical," Dolgren said in return. Almost immediately, a screen imbedded in the wall displayed a tactical diagram which portrayed the positions of the planet and its rings. Fortunately, they were the only ones here right now. Dolgren reviewed the three-dimensional diagram of the planet and surrounding area until he found a perfect place to hide. "Position us above the feral corona," he said, pointing to a place on the map where one of the rings arced over the planet near its northern polar region. "That should suit our purposes quite well for the time being."  
  
"Yes, admiral," the young man's voice came back. "Moving into position now."  
  
Dolgren momentarily wondered why the orders had sent them here before the blockade was supposed to begin, and had specifically instructed them to hide until called out into the open. Perhaps it was another of his hunches. Perhaps it was just some hidden agenda he wouldn't find out about until the time had come for him to find out. That's probably what it was; most orders that came from high places usually were.  
  
The viewport was slowly overtaken with a dull whitish glow; the dust cloud which surrounded the plethora of small meteorites that formed Fornax's rings. The dust cloud was expansive enough and thick enough to nestle the star destroyer neatly inside of it, hiding it from view without putting it in danger of meteorite collisions. Here, the ship would also be invisible to prying eyes from the planet's surface. The huge ship settled in and shut down its engines as per orders. For now they would hide in the frozen cloud of dust and ice; and when the time came for the rings to glow once again, they would come in a blazing path out of the flames.  
  
The door to his chambers chimed, signalling a visitor.  
  
"Who calls?," asked Dolgren, turning away from the viewport.  
  
"Captain Riton, sir."  
  
"Enter."  
  
The Captain stepped into his personal chambers and walked over to him, gave a sharp salute.  
  
"What can I do for you, captain?," asked Dolgren.  
  
"I'd like to speak with you in regards to Donovan Marks if I may, sir." The captain had obviously seen the quarters assignment given to Marks and was curious how a lieutenant could get an executive suite aboard an Imperial star destroyer.  
  
"Oh? You have questions, I presume?"  
  
"Frankly sir, yes. I was wondering about Lieutenant Marks' position aboard this ship."  
  
"His position?"  
  
Captain Riton proceeded slowly, choosing his words carefully, trying to be respectful and still figure out what was going on. "Yes, sir. He seems to hold a more…esteemed…position aboard this vessel than his rank signifies."  
  
"You are referring to his quarters assignment, of course."  
  
"Yes, sir," said Riton, forcing himself to meet the admiral's gaze. He knew he was getting into something deeper than he was able to comfortably stand in; he just didn't know what it was. And hopefully he wouldn't figure it out until the time was right.  
  
"I was given very specific instructions by my superiors to extend Donovan Marks every courtesy during his stay aboard this ship, Captain Riton," said Dolgran, his voice just firm enough to let Riton know this matter wasn't his business, "and that is exactly what I intend to do. His business aboard this vessel is none of your concern so long as I hold a higher rank than you."  
  
"I understand, admiral," said Riton, the shakiness in his voice barely noticable, though it was definitely there. "I merely wondered if there was a technical error in his assignment. I apologize for disturbing you."  
  
"Dismissed, captain," said Dolgren. The captain gave another salute, turned on his heels, and exited the chambers. Dolgren could only hope that the captain's loyalty to him and to the Empire would hold true enough to keep his nose out of this Donovan Marks business. If he couldn't…well, it would be a bad time for all of them. It would be a bad time, indeed. The Emperor did not like nosey people.  
  
Dolgren turned his attention back to the viewport and watched as the endless stream of tiny meteorites, ice chunks and frozen dust particles floated past. Of all the admirals in the Imperial navy, why had they chosen him to command this assignment? Only time would tell what was in store, and this was the perfect time to get some other work done in preparation for the coming events. Now, it was time to wait.  
  
* * *  
  
Captain Riton stepped out of the admiral's chambers and waited for the door to seal behind him. Then he breathed a deep sigh of relief. That was not an easy thing, to confront Admiral Dolgren; especially about something that was supposed to be none of your business. The admiral was a harsh man -- always had been, from what he'd heard about the admiral's service record. Perhaps he had his reasons for treating Donovan Marks differently than the other TIE pilots. There was something about the boy that made him a bit uneasy. Something hidden just beneath the surface that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself.  
  
Still, the admiral was hiding something from him, and it was beginning to cause problems with the crew. No matter what the reasons were for the admiral's secrecy, Captain Riton quietly resolved to keep an eye out for any clues that might tell him what this was all about. He might be lower in rank than Admiral Dolgren, but he was still the captain of this ship.  
  
And nothing escaped the captain for very long.  
  
  
  
Chapter Five  
  
  
  
Raevin watched as the steam from his bath rose into the air and dissipated into nothingness. So it was with a lot of the problems he'd had over the years; they presented themselves, harassed him for a time, and then were resolved and disappeared. So it would be with the major problem he was facing right now, and had been having for some time. As he sat, he considered the puzzle itself. Therein, he concluded, he would find a solution to it.  
  
The problem was a tiny info disc, about the size of a miniature holo recorder. It was a standard info disc, like any other; laser written and read, magnetically sealed, electronically encrypted. There was, from the outside anyway, nothing whatsoever extraordinary about the disc itself. The information contained on that disc, however -- that was the real prize…and the major problem. If he could capture that disc, he would no longer need this organization. He would no longer need to work for a living. Even this life of piracy, with all of the wealth he'd acquired from years of diligence, could not compare to the power of that disc. It was what he'd always wanted.  
  
There was a great risk in getting the disc, though. In order to free himself up to receive it, he would have to give up everything. He could not run the risk of being identified as a pirate, or as a slicer, or as a criminal of any sort. Everybody knew his name; but nobody knew what he looked like, or that he even really existed. That was the only card he had to play. And play it he would.  
  
Raevin slipped beneath the surface of the hot, bubbling water, held his breath, and soothed himself that it would all be over soon enough. He had only to set his elaborate plans in motion, and things would be complete.  
  
A chime from the intercom raised him up from under the water. "Yes?," he asked aloud, wondering if this would even be worth his time.  
  
It was Rills. "The woman is here. She says she's considered her options, and she wants to talk to you. Do you know what she's talking about?"  
  
"Yes. Tell her I'll be out in just a moment."  
  
Raevin stood from his seat in the bath and stepped out onto the cold marble of the floor, grabbed a towel from a hook on the wall beside the tub. He dried himself except for his hair, and then threw the towel back to its hook and grabbed his pants, put them on. He walked out of his bathing room into the 'fresher, and picked up a comb, which he used to untangle and smooth his black hair. From the closet there he picked out a smooth, silky black shirt and put it on, then walked toward the door which led to his personal office, where she would be waiting for him, not caring to button the shirt. When he unsealed and opened the door, Corvyna looked up at him from the chair she'd been sitting in and froze, her eyes locked on him.  
  
"Good afternoon, Corvyna," he said, giving her a brief smile. "What can I do for you today?"  
  
Corvyna's jaw moved a little at first, as though she were wanting to say something but didn't know how to phrase it. Her eyes seemed glued to him, and it was an obvious effort when she pried them away and looked straight ahead at his desk, her jaw set, a barely noticable flush coming into her cheeks.  
  
"I'm here to discuss the offer you made me last night."  
  
Raevin smiled. "So you've made your decision, then."  
  
"Only on one provision," Corvyna said, giving him a very definitive glare in return.  
  
"And what is that?"  
  
"I'll help you only if I get a secured copy of the disc once the operation is complete." Raevin raised his eyebrows as if to protest, but Corvyna held up a hand to silence him. "That's the price of my assistance, and it stands firm."  
  
"And what makes you think you are in a position to demand such a high price?," Raevin asked, his lips drawing together to form a thin, serious line.  
  
"Because you know that nobody else can pull it off," said Corvyna with full confidence in her voice.  
  
"Really?," he asked her, cocking his head slightly to one side. "How do you figure?"  
  
"I'm bathed, well-fed, and sitting in your office in new clothes that you provided me. That doesn't sound like any prisoner I've ever heard of. In fact, it sounds a lot like you're treating me as though I were a valued business partner."  
  
"You certainly don't miss very much, Corvyna," said Raevin, allowing the slight smile to return to his face.  
  
"It's what I'm best at," she said, her face only barely betraying that she was still thrown off by his physical appearance.  
  
"Indeed," he said, and then handed her a glass of wine he'd poured for her. He considered a moment, and then smiled again. "Done. You'll receive a copy of the disc once we bring it back here and decode its encryption sequence."  
  
Corvyna looked at the glass of wine for a long moment, and then looked into his eyes as if considering whether or not to trust him. After a long pause, she took the glass and downed its contents quickly, then stood and walked for the door. "I'll be in my room until it's time to go."  
  
"Very well," said Raevin, and then smiled once again and bowed his head slightly. "You are free to do as you wish."  
  
With that, she stepped out of the room and was gone. He sealed the door behind her and walked back over to his desk, sat down on the comfortable chair behind it. Finally, the last piece of the puzzle was about to fall into his hands. He was so very close now. Soon enough, it would all be over. But the girl…he would have to be very careful with her. She wanted a copy of the disc, so he had promised her one in order to gain her help. Too bad, he thought silently, that the disc cannot be copied.  
  
It was of no consequence, though. He would find some other way of appeasing the girl. Surely there was something he had that she wanted. Raevin allowed himself a brief chuckle, and sipped at his wine. The coming days would be very interesting.  
  
* * *  
  
Corvyna lay comfortably asleep in her bed that same night. Slowly, her eyes moved beneath her eyelids as though she were searching for something. Her breathing grew very deep, very slow, and she began to really relax for the first time in quite a long while.  
  
Then, without warning, the dream came to her.  
  
Corvyna found herself standing in a dense, lush jungle. Huge trees rose above her on all sides; ferns and flowering plants of all kinds waved gently in the cool afternoon breeze. Even the air smelled sweet and fresh. The sun shone in spots on the ground through the jungle canopy overhead. Everything seemed so peaceful. What is this place?  
  
In the distance through the trees, across a large, open valley in the terrain, she could see a very ornate structure of some kind. It looked to her like a government building. She looked at her pocket chronometer, which read 11.07.31. Something about that time struck her.  
  
Only one hour left.  
  
The thought jolted through her like an electric current, and she began to run at a brisk pace through the dense jungle toward the building in the distance. As she ran her mind, trained over numerous years and countless missions, ran through a physical and mental checklist. She had no injuries, and there was no indication that she'd receive any just by running on this path, unless she got reckless. She had her slugthrower pistols with her, both of them loaded and with 2 spare clips each, also loaded. Her assassin's knives were strapped securely to her, and were all easily accessible. She had her two electro-shock blades, both fully charged. And she had her rifle. It was her most prized possession, that rifle; she remembered briefly how she'd built it side by side with her brother Tal as he'd fashioned his own.  
  
The building grew larger and larger in front of her until finally she was upon it. It stood about 500 meters directly in front of her, facing to the north. She was looking at the west wing of the building, so she worked her way around to face the south entrance. That was where her target would be. She glanced again at her chrono: 11.49.27. Eleven minutes to go.  
  
She found a nice little spot on top of a ridge overlooking the back of the building. It was crowded with dense underbrush; little bushels of dark and faded greens and yellows and browns. It was the perfect spot to hide. Setting up her equipment took only a few moments. From the sling on her back she pulled her rifle, already assembled and loaded. She lay down amidst the tangle of bushes and slipped the sleek black barrel of her blast rifle through an opening in the foliage. And she waited.  
  
The chronometer clicked on and on, and gave a small, barely audible chime when it reached 12.00.00. Right on time, a heavily-armored blue landspeeder pulled up to the back entrance, escorted by four speeder bikes. From the back entrance of the building poured forth of full squad of ground troops, all of them heavily armed. Corvyna looked through the scope at the landspeeder. So far, nobody had gotten out.  
  
Then she saw the crest painted on the hood and side of the landspeeder. All of the troops also bore the crest in smaller form on their uniforms. It was the crest of the Andrillian Royal Security Force. So her target was a very important man. The ARSF was reserved for personal escort of the Royal Family only, and was very rarely used to escort anyone else. They were known for their steadfast loyalty and their lethal combat skills. She must be cautious.  
  
As if on cue, the door facing the building opened and a man stepped out. He was also wearing a military uniform of some sort, though it was different from the ones the troops were wearing. She zoomed in on the scope, and saw a patch on his shoulder. That was the marker she was looking for; there was her target. She set the distance guage, adjusted the blaster rifle's power level to FULL, and set her target into the center of her blaster's sights. The crosshairs in the scope flashed green, indicating a claer shot, and she began to squeeze the trigger, the man's head directly centered in the scope. Something caught her eye on the man's collar. It was a silver tag attached to the man's uniform which read "Gallantros Special Forces : High Command."  
  
A Gallantros military commander? Here? Wasn't there a war going on between Andrillia and Gallantros?  
  
She decided not to concern herself with it. Her only concern was that this man was her target, and she was being paid a great deal of money to make sure he never moved again. The crosshairs flashed green again, and she pulled the trigger.  
  
The nearly invisible bolt of energy erupted from the barrel of the blaster rifle and shot toward the man's head. When it hit him, it was obvious that there was no chance for him to survive. His body hit the ground with a thump…what was left of it.  
  
The instant the man fell, she realized her mistake.  
  
Every weapon standing down by the south entrance to the building instantly trained on her position. She leaped to her feet and dodged into the dense jungle foliage behind her as the small clump of bushes where she had just lay turned into a blazing storm of blaster fire. Through the trees behind her she heard shouting, and boots crashing through the leaves and twigs on the ground. She heard the four speeder bikes start their repulsorlift engines and vaguely heard the echoes of their howling pursuit. She was in very deep trouble.  
  
She came into a large clearing, about 50 meters across, blanketed with tall grass and flowers. She ran out to the center, her heart thumping in her chest, and dove to the ground. Almost immediately she heard the speeder bikes race into the clearing and circle, looking for her. They each had a repeating heavy blaster on them, so if they detected her they would surely kill her. Unless she got to them first.  
  
She crawled through the tall grass on her belly, and rolled over onto her back. She detached the long stock from her rifle, and replaced it with an auto-repeater stock. It was shorter and more heavily cushioned for recoil, and included a fully automatic firing mechanism. She detached the clip of invisible explosive bolts, which she then replaced with a double- load clip of plate-piercers. These bolts were designed to go through almost any armor plating, from personal to small craft strength armor. It wouldn't work on big ships…but these weren't big spacers. These were speeder bikes.  
  
The last thing she did was detach the end section of the barrel. It would make the weapon slightly less accurate, but a lot more maneuverable; and right now, the thing she needed most was speed.  
  
The soft whine of repulsors told her that two of the speeder bikes were getting very close. She didn't have much time left. She clipped the modified rifle to her belt, and pulled out her secret weapons -- a pair of steel blades, each about 36 inches long. The blades, specialized to her specifications, carried an electric current, which was activated by buttons on their grips. She activated them, and heard them hum slightly as they powered up. They were part of her assassin's kit, only longer than the rest. When she heard the sound of the repulsors right above her head, she acted.  
  
She sat up with lightning speed and swung the blades out away from her body in horizontal arcs, grazing the undersides of the two speeder bikes nearest her. Sparks flew, and the bikes lurched forward at full speed before their repulsor banks gave out and they sank to the ground, dead. The unsuspecting riders were caught off guard and were thrown from their bikes, hitting the ground with terrible force.  
  
The other two bikers across the clearing saw what happened to their companions, and came howling to the rescue. By the time they got there, though, Corvyna had already crawled to another section of the clearing. She stood up, a blaster from one of the unseated riders in hand, and fired. One speeder bike took two bolts in its fuel tank and exploded. The second rider turned to face Corvyna just in time to catch a third bolt in his chest. He fell to the ground, his bike hovering above him.  
  
Corvyna ran towards the speeder bike. It was her only hope of getting out of this alive. There was no way she could possibly outrun all of those foot soldiers in time; and they should be arriving any moment now.  
  
Sure enough, the soldiers from the government building began pouring into the clearing in pairs. She dropped the blaster she had taken from the biker, and unclipped her modified rifle. Setting it on full power, she began to sweep the blaster from side to side, sending out a barrage of piercing blaster bolts, trying to mow down as many of the oncoming soldiers as she could. The blaster began to run hot, and its automatic shutoff reached its limit. Five seconds later, its clip expired. The blaster was useless. She ran for the remaining speeder bike.  
  
When she reached the remaining bike she was knocked to the ground by a baton of some sort, which swung out of nowhere from her left side and struck her jaw. The bone there was jarred hard into the sockets, and it stung instantly; she fell sideways from the blow. She spun as she hit the ground, digging her hands hard into opposite sides of her body, under her arms, where she grabbed the grips of her slugthrower pistols into hardened fists. She pulled them and threw them straight out in front of her, aligning the barrels instantly, and began pulling the triggers. The foot soldier caught several rounds in his chest and shoulders, and when he began to fall he caught several more in his head. She leaped on top of the speeder bike, hit the repulsors to full, and sped off with a roaring howl into the jungle.  
  
Corvyna awoke in a gasp of breath. She sat up in the bed, trying to get her bearings. The smooth, soft bedsheets were crumpled and tangled about her legs, drenched with a cold sweat that made them cling to her as she peeled them away. The loose cloth shirt and shorts that she had worn to bed also clung to her body, cool and damp as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, headed for the bathroom.  
  
Her head pounded along with the beating of her heart, and she wondered vaguely as she paced toward the bathroom how many times she had had this nightmare now. Ten times? That event had taken place nearly a month ago. How many more times would she have that same dream? She was already beginning to think she was going insane. And these headaches. Oh, the headaches were terrible. It felt as though her very skull would explode from the pressure.  
  
The significance of the dream pounded into her.  
  
She leaned over the Alderaanian-style bathtub and twisted the lever that would turn on the hot water. It came out instantly hot -- they must have a natural reservoir or hot springs nearby, she thought. When the tub had filled with steaming water, she dimmed the lights and pulled away the clinging, cold shirt and shorts she was wearing, then stepped lightly into the water and very slowly sat down.  
  
She situated herself comfortable in the tub and took a moment to admire its architecture. It was constructed entirely of a single piece of Alderaanian black marble; it was a very soft stone, very smooth, the color of deep, rich ebony streaked with stark white. The rim of the tub was intricately carved with the shapes of flowers and other exotic plants native only to Alderaan. It was a very beautiful bathtub. At least Raevin was a man of some good tastes.  
  
Raevin. Now there was a man with a plan. And she had just made a deal with him to make that plan work for her, too. If this imaginary disc of his turned out to be real.  
  
The disc he had told her about was a slicer disc. In theory, the program contained on the disc could slice into the records databases of several controlling -- and very high security -- organizations in the Corporate Sector of the galaxy…and could do so undetected. The Galactic Land & Titles Bureau, the Galactic Credit Bureau, the Galactic Ship Registry, Corporate Sector Central Intelligence, and the Galactic Personal Identification Bureau; all could be sliced, in theory. With that disc, one could quite literally own anything, anywhere, any time they wanted. They could acquire a lifetime's wealth at the touch of a single button. And they could very easily disappear.  
  
She wanted a copy of that disc, and she would get it. If they could pull off the job of finding it first. She only hoped the disc was real.  
  
Corvyna finished her bath, and went back to bed.  
  
Chapter Six  
  
  
  
The Imperial Senate Hall bustled with activity. People meandered around everywhere, going from chair to chair, the sentors' aids making deals with each other regarding the proceedings that were about to take place. Alliances were made in such a manner; some of the longest-standing planetary bonds and even decisions that affected every life in entire sectors of space were made through senators' aids, walking around making under-the-table offers to each other. 'You help me fill my credit account now, and I will help you fill yours later' had always been a staple motto when it came to these senators and their supposed representative opinions. Representative, indeed.  
  
Neilen Beaux paced back and forth inside his private office, and thought about how he was going to present this problem to the senate without causing a war. It would be very difficult; the outright assassination of a high-ranking military figure under a banner of truce? Difficult was a grand understatement.  
  
Senator Beaux was the representative of Andrillia. He was a short man, which he made up for with his overzealous nature and bravado. His short dark hair and blazing green eyes only made him look more fiesty. But today, he thought, he would definitely have to play it cool.  
  
He would wait for the Gallantros senator to bring it up. Once he had brought up the assassination, he would present all of the evidence in support of his case, and attempt to prove that it was the Andrillian government who had been behind the whole thing. He would stand up and object right then and there, declaring it an outrage. The Andrillians had flown a banner of truce for the conference, and they had meant it. They even had their own royal guard escort the commander from the landing site of his ship to the palace. It was insane to think that anyone in the high command would have dared to betray that trust -- it would mean the outright slaughter of Andrillia to start a war now. Andrillia had almost no weaponry whatsoever, and its defense force had dwindled in the past years, an act of faith on the part of the Andrillian Royal House to establish a bond of trust between Andrillia and Gallantros. The ploy had not worked, however; Gallantros had merely increased its forces as the Andrillians had given up their own, and now it was too late to start building them up again. They were now under a very watchful eye, and the first sign of resistance against Gallantros would mean war. They had to find a way to put this assassination aside somehow, to get it out of the view of the galaxy before it got blown so far out of proportion that it led to destruction.  
  
So they passed it to Nielen Beaux.  
  
Beaux paced back and forth for a moment longer, and then walked to his desk and sat down. There his personal assistants, Tieman and Sirreh, were taking down preemptory notes on the proceedings from the ledger they had been given this morning. They were very good at what they did; they always kept him on the right track when it came to senate ongoings. He was very fortunate to have them as his advisors.  
  
When he sat down, Sirreh looked over to him and smiled. "Are you well, senator?," she asked, a hint of real concern in her voice. "You've been pacing like that for a while now."  
  
He looked at her and nodded. "Yes, Sirreh. I'm fine, thank you. I was just going over the way I'm going to present our side of the matter when it comes to that assassination. If they try to say that it was sanctioned by the Royal House…." His voice trailed off, and he looked back to the folders on his desk.  
  
"And have you figured out how you're going to approach the matter?," she asked, raising her eyebrows at him with even more concern in her voice.  
  
"No." He didn't look up at her; rather, he let his answer hang in the air for a moment.  
  
Before she could make a reply, there came a loud rap from the gavel at the throne in the center of the hall. On that throne sat Emperor Palpatine. He was a short old man, huddled over in his black robes. His old appearance was deceiving, however; Palpatine was a man of great power. He was rumored to be one of the most powerful Jedi in the history of the galaxy. Beaux knew of the Jedi. He had heard stories about them growing up as a child on Andrillia. Andrillia had some sort of history with the Jedi, as he recalled; something about a very powerful dark side Jedi rising up and causing a bunch of havoc. It was even rumored in very high circles that the princess had shown promise of becoming a Jedi, before the incident. Before she had disappeared.  
  
That had been nearly ten years ago, though. Nobody really remembered anything about the princess, and the king and queen had finally stopped looking for her several years ago. She'd come home, they had said, when she was ready to. If she was still alive to do so.  
  
The Emperor spoke, and brought Beaux back from his daydream.  
  
"We have a number of things to discuss in this session of the Imperial Senate," said Palpatine, his voice booming out over the crowd of now silent senators and aides and spectators. "We must begin. The chair now recognizes the senator from Carida."  
  
This was going to be a long day.  
  
* * *  
  
Rills sat in the main lounge with the rest of the crew, waiting. He thought he knew what they were waiting for, and that was why he was now nervous, almost to the point of breaking a sweat. He really had to remember to lay off the energy supplements. Raevin had called this meeting, which at a time like this could mean only one thing: dispatch.  
  
The only door to the room opened, and Kelvin stepped in. Kelvin was just another member of the crew, who specialized in information brokerage. Or at least he had. He had worked many times as a counterpart to Vercix. Since Vercix's death he had been doing small tasks around the base; a whole lot of nothing. He made a point of looking at the empty chair where Vercix had sat, and then sat down.  
  
"So," he said quietly. "Anybody know why we're here?" Everybody got instantly silent, and looked at him. They all remembered his partner.  
  
Finally, one of the men spoke up. "Maybe it's just a progress meeting."  
  
"No," said Rills. "Raevin knows how business is going." They all looked at him, wanting to know more, and figuring that he'd know it since he was second in command. "We're here on dispatch."  
  
"To where?," asked Kelvin.  
  
Before Rills could give that question a deviant answer, the door whisked open. Raevin had arrived, and he looked serious. Behind him was the woman they had captured two weeks ago. What was her name? Cantessa? Carson? He couldn't remember. Something along those lines. She also looked serious.  
  
Raevin's voice rose out across the room. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said, looking at each of them in turn as his eyes panned across the room.  
  
The crew responded with nods and "good evenings" before he continued. That was one thing Rills had always found intriguing about the way Raevin ran this organization; he actually demanded that the crew act like gentlemen. They were all pirates, smugglers, and the like -- some of the most ruthless thieves and killers in the galaxy sat around this table -- and they all acted like civilized, high-class corporate types. Just one of those odd, paradoxical ironies you would only find within an organization run by a man like Raevin. "You're not poor," he had said once. "So don't act like you are. Stereotypes kill people."  
  
In the silence of the moment, Rills considered those words. Stereotypes kill people. Raevin had always been cryptic that way.  
  
"I see you all made it back here." Everybody nodded. "I apologize for the short notice; I know some of you were in the middle of things, but it was necessary. I need every one of you right now. Thank you all for coming so quickly." Nobody said anything, so he continued.  
  
"Two weeks ago, I gave you all individual instructions for a job that I've been planning for some time now. Our window of opportunity for that job has begun to open, gentlemen. The time has come to go to Coruscant."  
  
"Coruscant?," Kelvin said. "But I thought the timetable for that job was set for a whole month from now."  
  
"It was," said Raevin, allowing only a slight smile to cross his lips. Then he said something nobody expected. "Vercix was a spy."  
  
A quiet exchange of glances went around the table before Raevin spoke again.  
  
"I knew he was selling information to the Imperials more than a month ago. So, to save the operation, I gave them a closing date that was set for a full month too late. They're expecting you all. But they're not expecting you for another month." Kelvin raised his eyebrows and sighed relief.  
  
"Once again, Raevin, sheer genius," said Kelvin, who gave Raevin a smile ever so small.  
  
Raevin nodded to him. "Thank you, Kelvin. You see, I'm not the boss of this organization for no reason."  
  
"So when's the real closing date for the operation?," asked Rills.  
  
"In one week," said Raevin. The woman standing beside Raevin shifted slightly, looking around the room. "By the way," he said. "I'd like to introduce you all to our new associate. This is Gabrielle Bevela." Everyone nodded to her, some said "hello." She gave a quaint nod to the room, and remained silent.  
  
"Get a good rest tonight," he said to them all. "To make the timetable you're going to have to leave early tomorrow morning."  
  
Raevin and the woman left the room without further pause.  
  
The rest of the crew began to stand and mill about. Some left the lounge, headed for thier quarters or possibly to their ships to prepare for the following day. Rills got up and fixed himself another drink. When he sat back down, he took a sip of the drink -- a strong concoction of alcohols -- and pulled out the datapad Raevin had given him two weeks ago. He accessed the part of the document that held the timetable, and changed all the dates to match the new schedule.  
  
There was something about his instructions he didn't like, though. The part that made him nervous. If he was captured alive, he would most certainly be interrogated; and he was supposed to tell his interrogators that Raevin Lucas had sent them. He wanted Rills to give up his name if he was captured. Maybe he was just getting overconfident, and he wanted them to finally know who he was. But that didn't make any sense; if Raevin was looking for a bad way to retire, this would be it. The Imperials, once given a name, would surely track him down and kill him. It just didn't make sense, but it did make Rills very nervous. Still, Raevin was a careful man when it came to this kind of business, and he knew what he was doing. Who was Rills to question his orders if he didn't even have all the facts, or even the capacity to understand them? If Raevin wanted Rills to give the Imperials his name, then that's exactly what he'd do.  
  
He started at the beginning again, reviewing his instructions carefully, and finished his drink. He was going to need quite a few more, he could already tell, before he was done.  
  
* * *  
  
The Naglfar raced through the atmosphere of Nal Hutta. Its sublight engines roared with power outside the ship in the hot, stagnant air of the Hutt homeworld. Yet, inside the cockpit, Tal could hear only the soft music which played over the intercom. He loved to do this. He would put on some classical music, kick back in the pilot's chair, open all of the viewports full breadth, and watch the whole galaxy fly by outside, as though he were simply flying on his own. The effect was particularly dazzling when the ship was in hyperspace. Watching all of those swirling blue and black shadows always had a tendencey to calm him. Sometimes it put him to sleep.  
  
The proximity alarms on the ship's control console began to sound, and he sat up in the tall-backed leather chair so he could see what all the commotion was about. Of course, he thought as he saw the two little blips appear on his radar screens. The slimy Hutt had to roll out the welcome mat. It was nice to know that she at least thought highly enough of him to not blast him out of the sky. Somehow, though, he wished he could just shoot these little windhoppers out of the air and go on about his business. Too bad he actually had to deal with them to get to her. And, unfortunately, he had to deal with her if he was ever going to find his sister. Sad a deal as it may be, the Hutts were always the ones to go to when you needed information; usually, because they were behind whatever scheme you were trying to crack open.  
  
The little ships on his radar screens suddenly buzzed past both sides of his ship, and then quickly came about to flank him. They had their blaster cannons trained on him, alright. He could see their targeting locks on his own ship's threat tracking devices -- top of the line systems, and completely illegal in every system in the galaxy.  
  
"Identify yourself," came a tinny voice over the inter-ship comm system. The transmission crackled slightly as it came through. That was odd, he thought. They were using a line-of-sight communications link, so nobody could tap into their conversation. She was so paranoid.  
  
"This is Captain Tal Baasik, of the ship Naglfar. I'm here to seek counsel with her imminence, Liesha the Hutt," Tall said back into the comm speakers, hoping the transmission would go through clearly.  
  
"Please await verification of identification. Do not deviate from your present course," came the tinny voice again. It was quite obvious from the poor quality of the sound coming out of the speakers that the pilot was robotic. Fitting, that she would have a bunch of chrome-domes doing her dirty work these days. Especially after all of the things she'd tried to pull off in the last few years, and failed at. She was probably using robots to protect her because everyone else was dead.  
  
"Identification confirmed, Captain Baasik," said the robot pilot. "You are cleared to land at marker HS344. Feeding your ship's navigational systems the proper course alignments now. Do not deviate from this course, or you will be destroyed without further notice." Tal decided quickly that he didn't like this guy, but because he was going to at least have a chance of getting his sister back, he also decided to listen to him for the time being. He'd get his chance to go target shooting later.  
  
He put the ship back on autopilot and locked in the new course that would take him to the landing pad. Once the nav computer accepted the coordinates and course, he walked back to his quarters and strapped on his blaster belt. He checked to make sure that his blaster was fully charged, which it always was, and then replaced it snugly in its holster. Hopefully he wouldn't need it today. But as jumpy as Liesha appeared to be these days, you just never knew. Especially with a self-absorbed Hutt who was living in fear of her life.  
  
The ship settled onto the landing pad and lowered its landing platform. As he walked down the ramp he saw them standing at the bottom, about ten meters away from him; two soldiers, obviously robotic, carrying very large blaster rifles. He walked down until he stood between them, raised his arms to show that he had no weapons in his hands, and then began to walk toward the double doors that led into the building.  
  
The inside of Liesha's compound was lavish, as most Hutts liked their dwellings to be. Decorations of all kinds lined the walls; none of it was high art, of course -- just a bunch of cheap coloring for the walls, so that the place didn't look totally bland.  
  
He was guided to a large hall, where a lot of people were gathered.  
  
Several different races were represented in the room: humans, Rodians, Twi'leks, Bothans, and a couple of Selonians were visible to him immediately. There were some Gamorreans milling about, and even a Tusken was standing at the bar. Most of the room's occupants ignored him when he was directed toward the center of the floor. Some looked up, but very few even gave him the time of day. Because they weren't told by Liesha to pay attention, Tal thought. He was nobody they knew, and rightfully so. That was his intention. If he had his way, they'd never know who he was. He liked being nobody in particular. It allowed him the freedom of certain liberties he enjoyed.  
  
Liesha the Hutt was perched on a large throne that was built into the back wall of the large arena. It was raised a couple of feet off the ground, so as to give her a taller appearance, and make her look bigger than she actually was. Liesha wasn't as big as she seemed, though; and she wasn't anywhere near as strong as she made herself out to be. In fact, she was physically very weak these days, due to a certain muscular disorder she had been affected with. Genetic, probably. Only Tal had heard of her illness, as far as he knew. Perhaps some of her personal advisors also knew that she was ailing. No matter, he thought. It was something he could threaten to use against her if he absolutely needed to.  
  
Liesha greeted him without fanfare. Apparently her robot guards had informed her that he was seeking private counsel with her, and not some grand entrance. She was at least smart enough to know when to keep things quiet.  
  
"Captain Baasik," she said in a noncommittal tone of voice. "How nice it is to finally see you again."  
  
"And nice to see you as well, Your Greatness," he said in return. Tal hated this part about going to visit a Hutt. You always had to pay homage to their egos before you could really start to talk to them; and if you didn't do that right, you might not even get to talk at all before you were summarilly executed for being disrespectful. He knew his way around the Hutts a little, though, and he'd had his share of experiences with them. He had even done some work for Liesha in past years, when he was still really struggling to make it on his own. That had been right after he and his sister had been orphaned.  
  
Liesha smiled at his comment. "So," she said almost matter-of-factly. "I hear that you need some information." Now they were getting down to business. This was what he had come for.  
  
"Yes, your greatness," said Tal, trying to think of how he should word and phrase his inquiry correctly. If he didn't choose his words carefully he could accidently imply that Liesha herself was involved in whatever scheme this was -- which didn't mean she really wasn't -- and in doing so would pick a very nasty fight with her. She would take it that way, in any case; and she'd have his head for it, also. He must be very careful indeed.  
  
"I'm merely looking for my sister," he said, staring up into the Hutt's face from down on the musty floor below and in front of her throne. "I was wondering if perhaps you might know whom she's working for these days, or where she is now. I need to get in touch with her. A family emergency of sorts has arisen." Liesha gave the Hutt equivalent of a sly smile, disgusting to him as it was, though Tal could swear he detected a hint of nervousness in her voice as she responded to him.  
  
"Now, Tal," chortled Liesha, her body jiggling slightly in the throne on which she sat. "You know that information does not come without a price tag." Her grin got just a little bit wider.  
  
Tal pulled out a credit transfer chit and held it aloft before him. "Provide me with the information I desire and I will gladly pay you for it here on the spot," he said, making sure that Liesha would see the value of the credit chit: its maximum limit was 25,000 credits. She saw the markings on the chit very clearly and motioned to her advisor, a Bothan he had never seen before. Her other advisor, who had served her when last he had been here, must have given her some bad advice; he was no longer in sight, which told Tal that he was most likely dead.  
  
After a moment of consulting with him she gave Tal a long stare, letting the silence hang in the air between them for a moment, and then said, "Your sister's last known location was on Corellia, as I recall. Somewhere in the area of Bell City. That is all I know."  
  
"You wouldn't happen to know why she was there, would you?," he asked pulling out another of the transfer chits of the same amount. He was hoping it would be enough to convince her, but it didn't work. She was weary of giving away the reason, which meant that she at least knew who would know who it was. Hutts were extremely paranoid when it came to beings that were more powerful than themselves.  
  
She shook her head and said a bit louder, "No, Captain Baasik. I have already told you what I know of your sister." He nodded and replaced the credit chit in a vest pocket. Without further preamble, he bowed slightly and turned to walk for the door. "You must come back to work for me sometime, Captain Baasik," Liesha said. "You used to be one of my best runners."  
  
He nodded to her once more over his shoulder, said "Perhaps," and then walked out of the large lounge and back out to his ship. Less than fifteen minutes later, the Naglfar shot forward into hyperspace, headed for Corellia. He would start there and work his way back, try to retrace her footsteps. Maybe that would help him find out who wanted to kidnap her, and why. He was already beginning to get the feeling this had nothing to do with him, personally. Maybe the lifestyle had simply caught up with her, and she was being held for bounty.  
  
Bell City, he thought. He hadn't been there in quite a while. He must remember to talk to some of the information brokers while he was there, and attempt to find out a little more about this Sabrina Starks woman. If he was going to go to her meeting in a couple of weeks, he would not go unprepared. Tal Baasik always did his homework. Whether the battle required blasters or not, he was always armed with something, and he knew from experience that the mind could be a very powerful weapon. Maybe if he figured out a little more about her past, he'd know how best to deal with her in the future. That would be armament enough in itself, for now.  
  
He lay back in the pilot's chair and hit the intercom button to resume the classical music he had been playing before. He lay there, watching the swirling blue-black tunnel that was a hyperspace corridor, and soon drifted off to sleep.  
  
* * *  
  
Neilen Beaux walked to his desk and sat down. He'd been pacing back and forth so much his legs were beginning to hurt. His feet ached with a tingly warmth when he sat down in the desk's plush chair. All in all, it was very stressful, this situation. Things were not going well.  
  
Over the course of the day's proceedings, he had presented his case against the heavy militarization of Gallantros, shown the trusting breakdown of Andrillia's military forces over the past several years, and then been outright accused of murder. As if he had killed the military advisor himself! Ridiculous!  
  
Things were getting way out of hand. This assassination was going to be the last little detail that brought everything crashing down. If he wasn't very careful in the coming days, it could very easily start a war. And this war wouldn't be some squabble over trade routes and tarriffs; it would mean the end of Andrillian civilization, at the very least. At the most, it could very well mean the extermination of Andrillia.  
  
He turned on the lamp that hovered over his desktop, spilling soft light onto the small piles of papers that he had to review for tomorrow's proceedings. Notes, case background, investigation reports, and the like were all clipped together and stacked neatly in rows across the desk's hardwood surface. Neilen Beaux inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, and when he exhaled he let go of all of the day's bothers and tensions. He needed a clear mind to get through this without any bumps. Once his head stopped spinning, he opened his eyes and dove into the piles of paperwork and started searching. Searching for an answer to why this was happening. Searching for a solution to the problem.  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
  
  
Donovan strolled around the main repair bay on board the Death's Head, looking at all of the activity. In one corner some mech droids were working on an old troop transport. Along one wall a distance beyond that was a cargo hulk, which looked like it was being resealed. Fracture lines were apparent in the metal along its sides, and a man knelt beside its huge walls with a spot welder in his hands, trying to seal some of them.  
  
Then, in one corner of the large, echoing repair bay, he saw it. A broken-down TIE fighter, obviously abandoned by the other people walking around the room. He walked over to it, and as he did he caught a glance of several other men dressed in mechanic's drabs looking at him and talking lowly to each other. He paid them no attention, and kept walking to the abandoned TIE.  
  
When he came within a couple of meters of the old TIE, he stopped. He stood there, like an abject servant before some sort of shrine, looking at the starfighter. This, he thought, was a piece of grandeur. This machine had been flown into battle and had survived. It was old, he could already tell; it was probably about ten years old, and hadn't been flown for two of those by the dust that covered its horizontal surfaces. He walked around the right side of the starfighter, running his hand over the worn solar panel wing very lightly, barely touching its surface. I'll change that, he thought. I'll make you like new. I'll make you fly again.  
  
He walked over to a storage bin along the wall beside the TIE, and opened it up. Various tools lay scattered about inside; wrenches, bolt drivers, spot welders, hydrospanners and others were strewn about. Drawers on the front of the bin held nuts and bolts, tubes and bottles of sealants, lubricants, and other basic materials for repair. It looked as though nobody had used this station in some time. Perhaps the attendant who held this station before had died, or maybe they just didn't need to open this station. In any case, he would use it to restore the TIE fighter, until somebody told him otherwise. He began to organize the drawers and the inside of the bin, putting like materials together and hanging the tools on seperate pegs inside.  
  
Behind him he heard footsteps approaching him. He turned around to look. One of the men he had seen looking at him earlier was walking towards him, looking right at him. In fact, the whole group was starting to get up from their seats and follow him over.  
  
When the man got a few meters away he said, "Hey, aren't you Donovan Marks?" Before Donovan could answer, the man rushed him and hit him in the jaw. Donovan fell instantly to the ground, his sight a little fuzzy. His jaw began to thump along with the beat of his heart, and it started burning. He reached up to rub it, and then looked at the man standing over him. The man stared at him for a moment, and then spit on him. He lifted his foot to kick Donovan in the ribs, and Donovan reacted.  
  
When the foot swung towards Donovan he reached up and grabbed it, twisted it sideways. The man turned and fell, and Donovan got to his feet. The other men were running towards him now, starting to yell. They were coming to beat him up. Donovan saw a long metal bar, nearly as tall as he was, leaning against the wall next to the tool bin. He grabbed it quickly, and hefted the weight in his hands. It was surprisingly light. When he looked up to the TIE fighter, he could tell why; the bar he now held was an internal support strut for one of the TIE's wings. It was light, but it was incredibly strong. He grabbed it in the middle, just as the man got back to his feet and rushed him again.  
  
Donovan whipped one side of the bar out towards the man's head, and it hit him with a loud thunk. As soon as he felt it hit the man's head, he pulled the bar in close to him and spun around so his back was to the man. He wouldn't need to worry about that guy for a while; the man was unconscious. His friends, however, were now very close to him, and before he knew it, they were all over him.  
  
All Donovan could see was flying fists, kicking feet, and his own blood. They were punching and kicking him, and every blow that landed on his body felt more and more painful. Soon enough one of them was sure to get lucky and hit him in the back of the head, and then he would be unconscious. What they would do with him then he didn't know. He couldn't let that happen. Donovan felt fear pulse through him for the first time since he was a young child. Fear, mixed with a burning warmth that boiled his blood and flushed his cheeks red. His vision became sharper, and his reflexes started to become more defined. Rage welled up within him.  
  
He looked down at the floor and saw the bar he had held just a few moments before lying at his feet. He bent over quickly and grabbed it. As soon as he gripped the bar he slammed one side of it into a man's knee, and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound. With a guttural screem he began to hit them with the bar, swinging it back and forth. He felt the newly- discovered surge of energy sweep through him. He began twirling the bar in his grip very agilely as he fought, knocking the men out one by one. When at last he thought he was finished, he felt something sharp pierce his left side. The first man, who started all of this, had just stabbed him with a vibroshiv. Donovan whirled around on instinct, the bar spinning in his hands. He stopped his spin with his back to the man again, and stopped the bar from spinning. With both hands he thrust it backwards under his arm, and heard a thump, crunch, and a gurgle. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the man leaning against the wall, the support strut protruding from his chest. Blood seeped out of the man's chest around the bar, staining his shirt and running in rivulets over the bar's metal surface. He was dead. The man slid down the wall slowly until he was nearly sitting on the floor, and then fell sideways so he was lying on his left shoulder, the bar the only support holding him up.  
  
Donovan looked down at his own side and saw that the vibroshiv was still stuck there, blood seeping through his clothes. With a snarl and a painful yelp, he tore it out of his side, then dropped it on the ground. He turned around and ran towards the main entry of the repair bay. He had to find help.  
  
His vision began to blur as his life drained away from him, leaving a bloody trail across the hangar bay floor. The turbolift doors opened as he reached them and he vaguely saw a small group of officers standing inside. He was running too fast to stop and he slammed into the most forward of them, then collapsed to the floor of the turbolift. He heard them shouting at him and saw them kneel down next to him. Then the turbolift walls around him began to spin, and the world swirled into the deep black of nothingness as he lost consciousness.  
  
* * *  
  
Admiral Dolgren was furious. He paced back and forth in front of the assembled pilots, officers and other staff in the main hangar bay where the incident had taken place the day before. His glossy black boots made hollow knocking sounds on the polished metal deck as he paced, echoing like hammerfalls in an old craftsman's shop. Dolgren's stiff military stance and defined gait were physical manifestations of the tension that hung in the air, and it was enough to make everyone present nervous. The admiral had a way of doing that. The expression on his face was worse by far. He was angry, alright; 'fury' didn't begin to describe the storm that was about to take place. Captain Riton, at full military attention behind the admiral's position, felt his feet shaking in his boots.  
  
"We are at war," Dolgren said, his voice deep and booming in the thick silence of the open hangar bay. "All the time, we are in a constant state of battle against the troublesome rebel forces and their allies. Smugglers, pirates and mercenaries, too. Endlessly, we fight against those who oppose us and defile our laws. We are the Imperial Navy – that's what we do. We are symbol of pride, honor, loyalty, and very strict discipline. All who oppose us will inevitably fall." He stopped in mid-stride and faced the twelve young pilots who stood in a line apart from the rest at rigid attention. "If you do not stand with us," he said, "then you stand against us."  
  
The admiral began pacing again, this time staring closely at each of the guilty pilots as he passed in front of them.  
  
"It is a sad day indeed when we find traitors in our ranks." They all visibly flinched at the word 'traitors.' They knew the penalty for treason. "Those who would betray one of their own comrades would in turn betray their Emperor…and such betrayal cannot be tolerated."  
  
Dolgren stopped at the far end of the row, staring at one of the accused men. Without warning he stepped back and pulled his blaster pistol, a cold expression on his face, and shot the young pilot in the chest. He followed suit all the way down the row, summarily executing each of the twelve men in turn until their bodies lay bleeding on the cold metal deck.  
  
He turned to the rest of the gathered assembly, who stared at him in disgusted awe, still holding the deadly blaster pistol in his right hand at his side.  
  
"We are at war," he said with a snarling grimace. "Remember that."  
  
The bleeding bodies of twelve dead pilots needed no further emphasis. That was an entire squadron of good TIE pilots that lay dead on the floor; this had become an expensive lesson for the rest of the star destroyer's crew. Minutes later they were no more than casualties of war, meaningless fleshy vessels floating in the dead cold of space.  
  
* * *  
  
The medical ward on board the Death's Head was large enough to accompany more than a hundred people at the same time, and as it was a fairly new ship in the fleet, it was very well appointed. It carried most of the latest necessary field medical technology, and the staff that were stationed here were known to be some of the best in the fleet.  
  
Even so, two days after the attack, Donovan Marks was still lying in a bed, unconscious.  
  
As Admiral Dolgren and Captain Riton approached the doors to the med ward whisked open, revealing harsh white lights…and that smell. Dolgren flinched slightly when he stepped through the doors and caught the cold, sterile stench of cleaning solutions, sedatives and astringents, all mixed together to form a thick, almost strangling odor that reeked like some headache pill. It reminded him of his own medical incarceration some years ago, and he hated it. He immediately wanted to leave.  
  
They proceeded through a set of short corridors to the other end of the ward, accompanied by one of the medical specialists who joined them at the door. When they reached the station where Marks lay, the doctor pulled back the curtains that surrounded him. Donovan lay still, eyes closed, half- covered by the thick linen bedsheets, with several machines monitoring his vital signs. He was still in bad shape, though his condition had stabilized.  
  
"How long will he be here?," Dolgren asked.  
  
"Another three days, sir," said the specialist. "He's lost a lot of blood, and the knife left a large laceration when it punctured his left lung."  
  
"Are you doing everything you can?," asked Dolgren.  
  
"Of course, admiral," the specialist responded. "We've managed to seal off the hole in his lung temporarily, so he can breathe on his own. Tonight he'll begin bacta treatments, and we estimate that the wound will regenerate in three days' time."  
  
Dolgren raised a finger to point at the specialist for emphasis of his words and said, "Take great care, doctor. This man's life is far more valuable than your own."  
  
"Yes, Admiral Dolgren," said the specialist, standing quite a bit straighter now. "I understand, sir."  
  
With that Dolgren turned and walked away, anxious to leave the med ward, with Riton close on his heels.  
  
* * *  
  
"Admiral Dolgren?"  
  
Captain Riton's voice echoed out in the hollow emptiness of the admiral's ready room. At first there was no reply; the room was dark and still, save for the dim glow of the dust clouds outside the viewport and the even dimmer pinpricks of starlight beyond that. Then, from the back corner of the ready room, came his reply.  
  
"Yes, captain?" Dolgren was standing near a comm console against the opposite wall, reading something on the screen. He turned to face Riton with a grim expression. It was obvious to Riton that he was not in a good humor. "You have a question," he said.  
  
"Yes," Riton said, wondering if he'd made a mistake by coming here. If the admiral was still angry like he had been this afternoon….  
  
"It's about Donovan Marks," he began, not really knowing where to start. "And about this afternoon."  
  
"This afternoon was an expensive lesson, captain," the admiral said firmly. "Nothing more. Had it been my choice entirely, I would have dealt with the pilots that attacked Marks in a different manor. Unfortunately, it was not entirely up to me. I was following orders, captain, to send a message to the crew of this ship."  
  
Riton looked confused at the admiral's words. He had thought until now that the public discipline was Dolgren's idea. "A message…."  
  
"To stay away from Donovan Marks," the admiral finished for him. It was a sense of near shock that took to Riton's thoughts first. Marks had come aboard this vessel as a lieutenant, and as far as Riton knew he still held that rank. Now, though, he was being protected – regardless of the cost – by someone superior in rank to the admiral. Lieutenant to untouchable, Riton thought to himself. What was so special about this kid?  
  
Riton was something of a veteran in the navy. He had seen several combat situations where twelve well-trained pilots – one squadron – had easily meant the difference between victory and utter defeat, and several more where they could have. It was a high price to pay, especially for a vessel in the Death's Head's current position: tactically deployed on a classified mission, in a secured location, and on a very precise timetable. They would need those men when the time came, but now they were dead and floating around in space. Instead, they were left with a young pilot, fresh out of the academy and with little or no actual combat experience. And to make things even worse, he was lying useless in the ship's med ward. The admiral must have sensed his uneasy thoughts.  
  
"We will be compensated for the loss of the TIE pilots, capatin. Do not concern yourself with the numbers. There is a supply shuttle scheduled to arrive tonight, and I have assurances from my superiors that new pilots will be aboard it." Before Riton could respond the admiral added, "Though you may rest assured that Donovan Marks is worth ten of our best fighter squadrons. And then some."  
  
This confused Riton further. "Why?" he asked. "What's so special about him?"  
  
"Let's just say," Dolgren replied, "that he is not just an average TIE pilot."  
  
"Then I should treat him differently from the others from now on?"  
  
"Yes," the admiral responded frankly. "You are to treat him differently. From now on, nobody touches Donovan Marks. Set a guard at the entrance to the med ward until he is released, just in case."  
  
"Yes, admiral," Riton said. There was nothing else he could say.  
  
"This is very important, captain. Do not disappoint me." Then, as if Riton weren't in enough shock at the sudden change in attitude, the admiral said something that really shocked him.  
  
"Donovan Marks is invaluable to the success of this campain."  
  
* * *  
  
The enormous bay doors of hangar 7A yawned open with a groan of heavy metal and stressed hydraulics, revealing behind them the now-familiar backdrop of a whitish haze. A moment after the doors locked fully open, a supply shuttle appeared in their picture-frame arches, which glided easily on its repulsors and settled to the metal deck. There was a hiss of pressurized air as the main ramp separated from the bottom of the ship and extended with a thump to the floor. The shuttle was carrying supplies, and soon after the ramp extended several crew members rushed forward to begin the process of unloading is cargo hold.  
  
Twelve younger men walked out of the ship a few minutes later, each carrying a large duffel bag with him. They were talking quietly among themselves, and the all walked to the turbolift across the bay and were soon gone. They were obviously TIE pilots, probably replacements for the pilots that had died earlier that day. The next person to come out of the ship, though, was definitely neither crew nor pilot.  
  
A figure in a heavy, dark grey robe strode down the ramp of the shuttle, his footsteps light and barely audible on the metal decking. The crew members who were unloading the shuttle barely noticed him as he came into view, if they took any notice of him at all. He too walked silently to the turbolift and disappeared.  
  
Five minutes later the robed figure came to the entrance of the ship's main medical ward. Two guards were posted there, one standing on either side of the corridor. Oddly enough, they didn't acknowledge him as he strode between them and passed through the doors.  
  
Half an hour later, just after the crew of hangar bay 7A finished unloading the supply shuttle, the robed figure stepped out of the turbolift and back into the hangar. The figure walked up the ramp into the shuttle, as silently as he had come out. Moments later the shuttle lifted off the deck and was gone.  
  
The doors of hangar 7A closed again, blocking out the hazy white mist of the planetary ring, and once again sealed the hangar bay in still silence.  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
  
  
"I am convinced that we can resolve this dilemna without the intervention of Imperial forces."  
  
The council room in the Royal Palace on Andrillia remained silent after those words were spoken. The pause hung in the air, with everyone glancing around at one another, until finally Neilen Beaux stood up.  
  
"That, I'm afraid, is not an option," he said. "And even if it were, I would not consider it a wise course of action." Everyone was looking at him now, and most of the faces wore expressions that spoke of puzzlement. Except one. The man whom he had just responded to, Rolanes Carvour, was gazing at him with a sarcastic grin.  
  
"What makes you think we can't handle ourselves in this petty dispute?," said Carvour. "The Andrillian military is still quite strong, and our fighting men are all very well trained." When Beaux didn't respond immediately he added, "Please don't tell me that you've lost your confidence in your own people."  
  
Carvour knew what effect those words would have on the other ten councillors, and Beaux knew that he had chosen those words carefully. It worked, too; the other ten councillors seated around the conference table turned their heads to look at him again, most of their faces almost eager to shift into a look of disgust. The Andrillian society was very big on self-confidence and therefore had unabounded pride in their fellow folk. To lose confidence in them meant that you were no longer a part of the group, which meant that you had become an outcast. And that meant that nobody would listen to you anymore, no matter what you had to say.  
  
"You know," said Beaux, "that is not the case. I have the utmost faith in the Andrillian people and believe that our system of government can easily resolve this dispute, given time to find a solution that would be mutually acceptable to ourselves and to the Gallantrans. Our problem, Councillor Carvour, is that we can no longer afford the luxury of time. Time is running out, and it is imperative that we find a resolution to this conflict very quickly, to avoid even coming to the brink of war with Gallantros. We need protection, in the event that this situations comes to blows. Such a war would be as destructive for us as it would be for them, and it is my belief that war is not necessary. Not only that, but if it would be nice to have a mediator standing in the middle to prevent this conflict from ever coming to bloodshed." Good save, he thought. He had won back the attentions of eight of the other councillors, and the other two were looking at their briefing papers.  
  
"Then why bring the Imperials into this, if we can resolve the matter ourselves?," Carvour asked, Beaux thought just to keep him on his toes.  
  
"Because, Councillor Carvour, the introduction of Imperial mediation would allow us much more time to find an acceptable solution to the problem," Beaux responded, and meant it. He would just as soon leave the Empire out of this dispute, if he could have his own way – but for now, they needed to prevent any further incidents from occurring, and that meant the oversight of Imperial eyes. Both Gallantros and Andrillia had good military forces…but even joined as one, they were no match for the Empire. Such a presence would indeed prevent any more "accidents" and petty disputes from taking their place in the grander scheme of things. For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that something more was behind this. Something small, but very important none the less. There was something he was missing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Vaguely, he wondered if it had anything to do with the assassination of the Gallantros high commander about a month ago. He pushed it out of his mind and concentrated on Carvour, who was speaking again.  
  
"Very well, Senator Beaux," said Carvour. "We shall review both the positive and the negative aspects of inviting Imperial intervention in this conflict, and we will reconveine in three days' time. As for you, I would suggest that you keep searching for a good compromise to end this situation as quickly as possible."  
  
Beaux nodded his head to that, though he didn't respond vocally. He just stood there until everyone else had filed out of the council room, and then began to gather his things. Something wasn't right here, he thought. Something to do with the way Carvour was so confident that they could win this dispute, even if it led to an all-out war. Surely Carvour must know that Andrillia's military forces weren't half as strong as they used to be. It had been Carvour himself that had advocated the lessening of their defense forces as a gesture of good faith towards the Gallantrans.  
  
Beaux and Carvour had always been rivals, even on their seperate ways up the ranks of government. It seemed that they were always standing on opposite sides of the spectrum when it came to matters in concerning the high council; it did not seem to matter what they were debating. But there was something odd about this time. Something just didn't fit like it was supposed to. It was almost as if Carvour was letting him "win" too easily these days, and Beaux didn't like it one bit. There was something behind all this, alright, and he was going to figure out what it was, no matter how long it took. He knew he was right about inviting the Imperials into the game, at least with the current conditions as they were. Now he just had to prove it.  
  
* * *  
  
Carvour sat down at his desk and smiled. What a fool he is, he thought. He'll never figure out what is going on until it's too late to prevent it. Carvour laughed aloud. If he knew Beaux – and he did, very well – the man would play along with the game that was set before him, and never think twice about the possibility that it was a deception. He took everything at face value. That wasn't the best part, though. The best part was that he was being used to make the deception look legitimate. Everything Beaux could possibly investigate about the matter had been laid out perfectly; all the right tracks led to all the right places, all the right papers had been signed and filed, and all the right people had been blamed. Beaux was known to be a very hard worker, and was somewhat renowned for his intelligence and his ability to solve problems.  
  
This problem, though, was just a little bit beyond his comprehension. It was a bit too complex, and it encompassed things that didn't seem as though they should make any difference. All in all, this could quite possibly be the most elaborate setup this system had seen in several decades. Well, it wasn't every day a planet was set up to go silently and innocently to its own destruction, and then be blamed for its own demise in the aftermath.  
  
Carvour laughed out loud. "I love this game!" he shouted to the empty office, spreading his arms as he stood from behind the desk.  
  
Beaux would work day and night to explore every option, and he would find only one. He would trace all the paper trails and drown himself in details until his eyes bled, trying to figure out what was going on, and he would not comprehend the larger picture. After today he would seek counsel with others and they would not listen to him. Beaux would know there was something wrong with the whole conflict, but he would not be able to identify what was wrong or to prove it. That was the best part of all: Beaux was an honest man. Everybody trusted honest men.  
  
And for their trusting nature, they would pay dearly.  
  
* * *  
  
Donovan awoke to see a white ceiling above him. Soft white light flooded his eyes, making it difficult to see clearly at first, and the subtle yet pervading odors of medicines, bandages and healing salves penetrated his olfactory senses. He was in the medical ward, he realized. He sat up and held his head for a moment, overcoming the inevitable vertigo that accompanied a long stay in bed, until he regained his bearings.  
  
"Why didn't you use your talents?," asked the voice of Kalis from his right side. Donovan looked at him.  
  
"Because I didn't see it coming," he replied. "The man just walked up and asked if I was Donovan Marks, then he hit me. I didn't know he was going to attack."  
  
"You should have," said Kalis.  
  
"He's supposed to be on our side," Donovan retorted. "I didn't think one of the Empire's pilots would come up and start a fight. It blindsided me."  
  
"That is where you failed," Kalis began. "You were not aware of your surroundings. Of the angst and intention of your assailant." He paused briefly. "Once again, young Donovan, you were not paying attention to your instincts."  
  
Donovan rolled that over for a moment, and then sighed. "You're right," he said. "I saw it coming, I guess, but I didn't want to believe that someone could dislike me. I don't like the feeling of being hated."  
  
"Oh, but you'll get used to it," said Kalis. "The feeling that those around you don't like you, for whatever reason, is insignificant. It does not matter. You will feel much worse in your lifetime, I quite assure you. You are the one with the power inside of you. You see, what they think does not matter because you have the power to silence their thoughts for good. You own them. They are no more intelligible or powerful than common nerf, and you are the nerfherder's employer."  
  
"Okay," said Donovan. "But even so, there were so many of them. I couldn't just pick them up and throw them around all day. I'm lucky I got out of that alive as it is."  
  
"That is because even though you know how to fight, you hold yourself back. Because you are afraid to hurt someone. Am I right?" Kalis waited for him to answer.  
  
"Yes," said Donovan.  
  
"Then answer me this," said Kalis. "Did they not hurt you, in doing what they did?"  
  
Donovan thought about that for a moment, and decided Kalis was right. They had no reason that he could see for attacking him, after all. They were just jealous of him.  
  
Kalis smiled very vaguely.  
  
"Come with me," he said. "I will show you how to let go of your conscious self and teach you how to fight, so that you can defend yourself the next time something like this happens."  
  
Donovan got up out of the medical bed and got dressed in a clean set of clothes. They were loose and comfortable, Donovan noted with satisfaction. They felt good.  
  
* * *  
  
Donovan tightened his grip on the bracer tubing he held and closed his eyes.  
  
He stood in the middle of a large empty cargo bay, holding a piece of metal tubing that was longer than he was tall, awaiting the signal from Kalis that would begin his first test. Over the past few days Kalis had been training him to use this piece of tubing as a weapon: how to hold it, how to move it around his body and how to move his body with it, how to use his newfound talent to guide it and to let that same talent guide him. Now he was going to be tested.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Kalis staring back at him.  
  
"Remember that you must concentrate," Kalis said. "Be mindful of where you are, and what you are doing, but also be mindful of the power within you. Let it guide you as you guide it, and follow your instincts. You will know, then, when to use your anger to overcome your enemies."  
  
Donovan nodded to him and regripped the durasteel tubing in his hands. "Yes, master," he said.  
  
Kalis walked to the far corner of the expansive room and stood, quietly watching his nervous student.  
  
A door slid aside in the far wall of the cargo bay, leaving an empty, black rectangular hole in the gray metal.  
  
Not empty, Donovan thought to himself. Out of the darkness suddenly sprang several pinpoints of red light. No, not several pinpoints. Several pairs of pinpoints. Those were eyes. The nervous feeling in Donovan's gut expanded, almost making him shake.  
  
"Attack!" yelled Kalis suddenly. Donovan looked at him as if to say 'are you crazy?,' and as he did he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Something had come out of the doorway and was appraoching him quickly.  
  
When he turned his head back to see what was happening, he identified the combat droid that was charging him head-on.  
  
Donovan barely sidestepped the droid's first attack, spinning off to his right and bringing the staff around him to strike the droid across the small of its back. The staff clanged off the droid's tempered metal carapace and shivered in his tight grasp, stinging his hand. Before he could even flinch the next blow was passing him, a mechanical arm narrowly missing his head. Donovan spun around again and thrust the staff back towards an open space in the side of the droid's armor. He felt more than heard its crash into circuitry and servomotor, then withdrew it again quickly. The droid swung at him again and staggered backwards, wounded.  
  
It took one more well-placed blow to the droid's skullcap to silence it and send it wheeling backwards to the floor. Donovan sighed.  
  
"Good!" yelled Kalis from his corner. "This time let go of your conscious self and let the power flow through you. Draw on it, and let it guide your movements." He paused for just a moment and then yelled again to the droids. "Second wave, attack!"  
  
This time two droids stepped out of the doorway and charged. These had weapons that looked similar to his, but they were obviously not. The first time he blocked a blow from one of the droid staffs his weapon bent slightly. The second time it shattered into several pieces and fell to the floor, useless. His hands stung from the impact and went numb with a burning sensation as he dropped the small fragment of his staff that remained. They were using vibrostaves.  
  
Donovan backpedalled away from the attacking droids, who slowly advanced on him, spreading out to either side of him as they approached. He looked around for a clue, anything that might help him. He saw Kalis holding up a black cylinder, about 45 centimeters long. A double-bladed lightsaber.  
  
"No!," Donovan yelled to Kalis. "I told you, I won't use one of those!" The droids were almost close enough to rush him. He tried to hold them back with the Force, pushing against them, but he was scared and couldn't concentrate. He felt his hold on them slipping away. In a matter of seconds they would charge him without restraint.  
  
"It is your choice," said Kalis. He tossed the lightsaber across the chamber with a flick of his upper arm.  
  
Just then Donovan's hold on the combat droids slipped. They charged him full force, staves ready to swing. Donovan broke. He charged at the droids with every ounce of speed he could muster, and jumped, flipping into the air over them. He extended his right arm toward the still-soaring lightsaber and grabbed it with the Force, called it to him from across the room. When he landed he spun on his heels to face the droids and pushed the activation studs on the lightsaber's grip.  
  
He wasted no time demolishing the two combat training droids that threatened him – or the three that followed them, or the numerous others that came after. By the time he left the cargo bay that evening, he had destroyed more than one hundred combat droids, each with different weapons and each group at increasing levels of difficulty. When he was finished, the lightsaber he held felt like an extension of his very will, as familiar to him as his own arms and legs.  
  
He would have never thought he could be a force user. He was becoming stronger every day, though, and even Kalis had told him more than once that he was surprised at Donovan's spontaneous growth. Donovan was becoming a powerful wielder of the most mysterious thing in the known galaxy: an unseen power that could allow a man to become, for all practical purposes, a god. More than anything, he realized, this was something he had always loathed before now.  
  
Now…he liked it.  
  
Donovan smiled as he walked down the metal corridor toward his chambers.  
  
* * *  
  
Tal walked along main street in the downtown business district of Bell City, watching the innumerable vendors show off their wares. Some were selling fruits and vegetables, some were standing outside of bars and restaurants trying to attract more clientel, and some were selling technology of various sorts. Pretty much anything that a person could desire could be found somewhere in the business districts of Bell City. The most popular item these days, though, was information – and vendors selling information were a bit harder to find.  
  
As he perused the glowing signs hanging over the doors that lined the street, his eyes fell on one in particular. It was a small dive called the Ocean Blue, and it wasn't a very inviting place from the outside. Perfect, he thought. Just my kind of place.  
  
He walked in and went straight to the bar. The bartender was something of a seedy old man – the appearance seemed to be one of the prerequisites to the job title, he was starting to think – who gave him a drink at not such a steep price. Tal caught the man by the sleeve as he was turning away and said to him, "Hey, pal. Just one more thing."  
  
The bartender turned back to Tal and gave him a weary look, jerked his sleeve back out of Tal's fingertips. "Oh, yeah? What?," he asked. It was obvious he didn't trust too many people around here.  
  
"I'm lookin' for someone," said Tal. "Maybe you could help me out."  
  
"Yeah, well I don't remember anybody," said the bartender. "I got too many customers to remember any one of 'em in particular. Maybe you should try somewhere else."  
  
"You'd remember this girl," Tal said. "Trust me."  
  
The bartender paused for a moment and gave Tal a very angry glare. "What makes you so sure?" he asked.  
  
"Because you would," Tal said. He produced a picture of Corvyna and showed it to the bartender. "You would…because she's probably one of the few girls in the galaxy who could really make you fear her."  
  
The bartender stopped at this and stared at the picture a moment. "What do you want to know?" he asked. "Who are you workin' for?"  
  
"I'm working for myself, mister," said Tal. "This girl's name is Corvyna, and she's been kidnapped by somebody, taken hostage. I need to know where she is, or at least who's holding her."  
  
"Yeah? And why do you care?" asked the bartender.  
  
"She's my only sister."  
  
The bartender gave him an odd look, then squinted at him. "You got any way of proving that?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah," Tal said. "I do. I was sent here by Sabrina Starks."  
  
The bartender obviously knew who she was, because he stepped back a pace and set down the mug he was holding. "Well," he said. "In that case, I might just know something."  
  
"I don't owe you anything for what you know," said Tal. "But if what you know turns out to be true, you'll be rewarded. I give you my word."  
  
The bartender nodded and started talking. "I don't know very much, that's the problem," he began. "I know that your sister was here, two weeks ago, and that she was being followed. How much do you know about what's going on?," he asked.  
  
What an odd question, thought Tal. "What do you mean, 'about what's going on'?," he asked the bartender, who shook his head.  
  
"If you don't know, then I'm not supposed to tell you anything," said the bartender, repeatedly shaking his head and stepping back again.  
  
Ah, thought Tal. I've got you now, you snake. You're working for them, aren't you? Tal planted his palms flat on the bar and jumped, lifting his feet up above his head so he could flip over the bar. When he landed he spun around and grabbed the bartender, who had begun to run from him, and held him by the throat. "Spill it," he said in a rough voice as he squeezed the man's neck.  
  
The bartender gasped for air and opened his mouth to speak, so Tal let off a little pressure. "Your sister is being held by a man named Raevin Lucas," he croaked. "That's all I know."  
  
"I don't believe you," Tal said.  
  
"Alright, Alright!" gasped the bartender. "There's more. Lucas was contracted to kidnap your sister and hold her hostage until you followed through on some bargain." Tal put two and two together.  
  
"You mean to tell me Starks is behind this?," Tal asked, his hand clenching a little tighter.  
  
The bartender nodded out of desperation, and Tal released him. So Starks was the mastermind. She had contracted this Lucas guy to kidnap his sister, and she wouldn't tell Lucas to release Corvyna until she used Tal for whatever purpose she had in store.  
  
The bartender, who was now feeling his throat, looked up at Tal. "You should be more careful, buddy."  
  
"Oh, yeah?," he said. "And why is that?"  
  
"Because Sabrina Starks is more than she lets on," he said.  
  
Tal left the bar very quickly and headed back to his ship. Sabrina was going to pay for this. In due time, she would pay very dearly. First, though, he would let her little scheme play itself out. Then he would tell her that he knew, refuse to help her, and her plan would collapse. Nobody used Tal Baasik and got away with it. Nobody.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
  
  
Neilen Beaux walked into his personal chambers and made his way to the study. He turned on a tall lamp in one corner of the room, shedding dim, diffuse light across the sapphire and black carpet and dark hardwood walls and bookshelves. He didn't need a lot of light right now: his head was already beginning to hurt from the harsh lights of the council chamber.  
  
Again today, they had tested his patience and questioned his motives. They had broken him down, questioned his authority, even questioned his status in the council – and the whole time, Carvour had led the pack against him, smiling all the while. What was it with him, anyway?  
  
Beaux sat down in his favorite chair, an old-style hard-backed chair with plush lining, and sighed. He didn't want to sit at his desk. He'd been sitting behind a desk every day for the past month now, and it hadn't done any good that he could see. He was sick of all the politics. He needed something more to work with, if he was ever going to work this thing out. He reached over to an end table and picked up a remote control, clicked its power button.  
  
Soft music flooded the room, and for the first time in at least a month, Neilen Beaux began to relax.  
  
Too soon, though, he heard a beeping that permeated the music with a harshly contrasting tone, and he clicked the remote's power button again to stop the music. He looked around, and finally saw a blinking blue light at the room's com station. He had a message waiting for him.  
  
Great.  
  
He got up and walked over to the comm station. There were the usual messages, of course, which he moved to his stockpile of useless messages. But there was one that was marked with a priority flag. He selected it, and sat down to watch.  
  
When the message began, he didn't beleive his eyes.  
  
"Senator Beaux," said the woman in the holo field. "Many years ago you served my mother and father in the High Council of Andrillia. You were their most trusted advisor, and it is easy to see why they chose you for the job. You inspire condfidence, Senator, in those whom you advise.  
  
"However, it seems that you are losing confidence in yourself lately. There is more to this puzzle than you think, Senator, and it is going to take a lot of hard work – and a lot of faith – to uncover the missing pieces.  
  
"I know more than you think I know, because I have been watching, and I have both seen and heard what is going on amidst Andrillia's highest authorities…and among its people. There is dissidence in the Council, and it must be undone before it takes a greater toll than Andrillia is ready to deal with. There is one thing, though: do not, under any circumstances, involve the Empire in this ordeal. We need protection from Gallantros, yes, and that is something I will very soon be able to offer.  
  
"The Andrillian people want a monarchy again, Senator; one that is just and fair, and one that will speak with them rather than for them. There is only one heir to that throne, Senator Beaux…and we both know who that is.  
  
"Now, it is my turn to inspire confidence in you."  
  
The woman in the holo held up a small holoprojector unit in her hand and activated it. It sprang to life and formed an image above it of a great vessel of some kind. It was something he had not laid eyes on for a very long time, many years, and again it was something he had trouble believing.  
  
"I give you the Fleurs de Legiones, Senator Beaux. The one thing that can bring our conflict to an end for good, with only the threat of harm. You know what it is. You knew it was out there when my father and his team of engineers designed it. Now, you know that it still exists, and that soon I will hold possession of it.  
  
"Do not let anyone know that I have contacted you, for that will foil the plans I have set into motion. Do not do anything differently, save for reversing your stance on Imperial involvement. Give no clues to anyone that this is coming. Especially Carvour. He is dangerous, Senator. If he knows what is coming, we will not be able to move fast enough to catch him in the act. There is more to this tale, as I've said, and I will tell you soon enough. For now, though, destroy this message and keep it secret. I will contact you again as soon as the next phase of the plan is in place. Goodnight, Senator Beaux. Sabrina Starks, out."  
  
Beaux stepped back from the console and sat slowly into a chair. He couldn't believe it. This was the piece of the puzzle he'd been looking for. Of course, he thought. The solution to their problems was so simple, and there it was. They would put the rightful heir to Andrillia's monarchy back on the throne, and dissolve the ruling council. That would take the power out of several arguing hands and place it swiftly into the hands of a decisive ruler. A strong ruler, who would lead them to victory.  
  
And then there was Carvour. He would get his, when this was all over. 


End file.
